fore
the struggle ended still another sorrow--or joy, they scarce knew
which--was to be added to their lives.

Early in October Marguerite's child was born. Almost she had prayed that
it might not live; almost she had hoped that she might die with it, and
end the awful suffering which was all they could look forward to. But
when she came slowly back to strength again, and held the tiny, helpless
creature in her arms, and knew that it drew its life from her veins, the
desire to live returned to her; she had now a double incentive to
courage and hope.

For a time Claude forgot the future, his own sufferings, everything
except his son. All the tenderness in his nature showed itself now. His
hands, which in France had known no service but war, were now as apt as
any woman's. Night and day he waited on Marguerite and her child, and
with great joy saw them both grow strong. Meanwhile, a kind Providence
seemed to be mindful of him, for his strength never failed him; and
Marguerite, as each morning she met his bright smile and cheery words,
began to hope that the miracle for which she had prayed had been worked,
and that Claude would yet be spared to her.

The cold of September had been followed by an unusually late and mild
autumn, and in the mellow, hazy days Marguerite would walk up and down
the cliff with her child in her arms, followed by the cub, which they
had humorously christened Francois, and which had now grown quite
domesticated, and would shuffle after his mistress wherever she went,
like a faithful dog. In these peaceful days Marguerite found herself
crooning to her baby the old Normandy lullabies, which she had not heard
since her own infancy, but which came back instinctively to her lips.

But her happiness was to be of short duration. The blow she had dreaded
fell upon her when she least expected it. Claude's strength had been but
false fire. With the return of the cold weather heaviness seized his
limbs, a dull weight oppressed his lungs, and his cough grew rapidly
worse. At last, one night, there came a haemorrhage which would not be
checked, and in the morning Marguerite found herself alone with her
dead.

How she lived through that night and the days which followed it she
never knew. Nature was merciful to her, and blotted out all memory of
details from her brain. The constant necessity of caring for her child
was all that saved her reason, and kept her from taking her life.

With her own hands she d