s mercy, his thing, his creature. If she displeased him, if her
children displeased him....

He fell asleep presently in a chair, according to his wont, snoring like
a well-fed animal. She sat and watched him for a while, shivering.
Suddenly she gave a little choked cry, and ran out of the house. She
stumbled down the hill, through the ravine below, along the road to
where a lighted window shone through the darkness. It was the window of
Jacques Benoix' study. She did not pause to realize why she was going.
She wanted only to be near her friend.

He sat beside a lamp, reading to his wife, who lay on her couch beyond.
Against his shoulder leaned his boy, rubbing a cheek upon the rough coat
as if he loved to touch it. The light fell on the two dark heads so
close together, the clustering boyish curls, the strong, curved lips, as
sweet as any woman's. Kate pressed her white face against the window,
drinking in the homely comfort of the scene. She had no wish to speak to
him, no disloyal thought of betraying to her friend this new and
terrible knowledge of her husband. It was enough to know that help was
within reach; always within reach.

The invalid's cough sounded from the couch. Benoix laid his took aside
and went to adjust her pillows. He bent over his wife and kissed her.

Then Kate knew. This stabbing shock in her heart--it was not friendship.
It was jealousy; love.

She started away from the window. She must have made some slight sound,
for Jacques looked up suddenly, and after a moment came out into the
darkness.

He almost stumbled over her in the ravine, face downward among dead
leaves, shaken with dry sobbing. He went on his knees beside her,
gripping his hands together behind him so that he should not touch her.
But his voice was beyond his control. It broke into little sounds of
tenderness and dismay.

"Kate--you! But what has happened? Tell me! What is wrong with you?
What?"

His nearness, the trembling of his voice, filled her with an exquisite
terror. If she could have risen and run away she would have done so, but
she dared not trust her legs. Nor could she look at him, there in the
starlight, with this new secret in her eyes. She clutched desperately at
her self-command.

He bent closer. "Kate, tell me! You are hurt. _Dieu!_ That man--" It was
the first time she had heard a trace of accent in his speech. "What has
he done to you?"

Still she could not trust herself to speak. In the silence sh