turned, and saw her father.

"They say," she screamed, "that every one worships you. Not true now!
Never true more! I hate--I curse--"

He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awed
her childhood. It awed her now. Her voice sank into a low shuddering
and muttering.

"That any one should have dared to tell you--that any one should have
interfered between me and my poor child!" he said, as if involuntarily,
while seating her on the fresh grass. He threw himself down beside her,
holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.

"This sod is fresh and green," said he; "but would we were all lying
under it!"

"Do _you_ say so?" murmured Genifrede.

"God forgive me!" he replied. "But we are all wretched."

"You repent, then?" said Genifrede. "Well you may! There are no more
such, now you have killed him. You should have repented sooner: it is
too late now."

"I do not repent, Genifrede; but I mourn, my child."

"There are no more such," pursued she. "He was gallant."

"He was."

"He was all life: there was no deadness, no coldness--he was all life."

"He was, my child."

"And such a lover!" she continued, with something of a strange proud
smile.

"He was a lover, Genifrede, who made your parents proud."

"Such a soldier!" she dreamed on. "War was his sport, while I trembled
at home. He had a soldier's heart."

Her father was silent; and she seemed to miss his voice, though she had
not appeared conscious of his replies. She started, and sprang to her
feet.

"You will go home now, Genifrede," said her father. "With Madame
Dessalines you will go. You will go to your mother and sister."

"Home!" she exclaimed with loathing. "Yes, I must go home," she said,
hurriedly. "You love Pongaudin--you call it paradise. I wish you joy
of it now! You have put an evil spirit into it. I wish you joy of your
paradise!"

She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away. Therese,
who had drawn back on seeing that she was in her father's care, now
intercepted her path, met her, and drew her arm within hers. Toussaint,
who was following, retreated for a moment, to ease his agony by a brief
prayer for his child, and for guidance and strength. Having
acknowledged with humiliation that he found his mission well-nigh too
hard for him, and imploring for the wounded in spirit the consolation
which he would willingly purchase for his brother and his child by a
life of