ons. It was evident that the
prayers of the girl had been briefer than those of the old woman in
whose charge she was. Where the need is greatest the prayer is often
the shortest. McLane had one more transitory glimpse of those dark eyes
as he held open the swinging door. The unconscious woman and the
conscious girl passed out of the church.

This was how it began.

The painting of the colored window of Notre Dame now occupied almost
all the time at the disposal of Hector McLane. No great work is ever
accomplished without unwearied perseverance. It was remarkable that the
realization of this truth came upon him just after he had definitely
made up his mind to abandon the task. Before he allowed the swinging
door to close he had resolved to pursue his study in color. It thus
happened, incidentally, that he saw the young girl again, always at the
same hour, and always with the same companion. Once he succeeded,
unnoticed by the elder, in slipping a note into her hand, which he was
pleased and flattered to see she retained and concealed. Another day he
had the joy of having a few whispered words with her in the dim shadow
of one of the gigantic pillars. After that, progress was comparatively
easy.

Her name was Yvette, he learned, and he was amused to find with what
expert dexterity a perfectly guileless and innocent little creature
such as she was, managed to elude the vigilance of the aged and
experienced woman who had her in charge. The stolen interviews usually
took place in the little park behind Notre Dame. There they sat on the
bench facing the fountain, or walked up and down on the crunching
gravel under the trees. In the afternoons they walked in the secluded
part of the park, in the shadow of the great church. It was her custom
to send him dainty little notes telling him when she expected to be in
the park, giving the number of the bench, for sometimes the duenna
could not be eluded, and was seated there with Yvette. On these
occasions McLane had to content himself with gazing from afar.

She was so much in earnest that the particular emotion which occupied
the place of conscience in McLane's being, was troubled. He thought of
the nice girl at home, and fervently hoped nothing of this would ever
reach her ears. No matter how careful a man is, chance sometimes plays
him a scurvy trick. McLane remembered instances, and regretted the
world was so small. Sometimes a cry of recognition from one on the
pavement to