rd stretching its new wings, she also tried her own resources,
innocently, timidly. And the torment of Jack began.

"Monsieur Marche, do you think that Lieutenant Carriere may come
to Morteyn?"

"He said he would; I--er--I hope he will. Don't you?"

"I? Oh yes. When will he come?"

"I don't know," said Jack, sulkily.

"Oh! I thought you were very fond of him and that, of course, you
would know when--"

"Nobody knows; if he's gone with the army into Germany it is
impossible to say when the war will end." Then he made a silly,
boorish observation which was, "I hope for your sake he will come
soon."

Oh, but he was ashamed of it now! The groom in the stable yonder
would have had better tact. Truly, it takes a man of gentle
breeding to demonstrate what under-breeding really can be. If
Lorraine was shocked she did not show it. A maid unloved,
unloving, pardons nothing; a maid with a lover invests herself
with all powers and prerogatives, and the greatest of these is
the power to pardon. It is not only a power, it is a need, a
desire, an imperative necessity to pardon much in him who loves
much. This may be only because she also understands. Pardon and
doubt repel each other. So Lorraine, having grown wise in a week,
pardoned Jack mentally. Outwardly it was otherwise, and Jack
became aware that the atmosphere was uncomfortably charged with
lightning. It gleamed a moment in her eyes ere her lips opened.

"Take your dog-cart and go back to Morteyn," said Lorraine,
quietly.

"Let me stay; I am ashamed," he said, turning red.

"No; I do not wish to see you again--for a long, long
time--forever."

Her head was bent and her fingers were busy among the lilies in
the gilded bowl.

"Do you send me away?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you are more than rude."

"I am ashamed; forgive me."

"No."

She glanced up at him from her drooping lashes. She had pardoned
him long ago.

"No," she repeated, "I cannot forgive."

"Lorraine--"

"There is the dog-cart," she whispered, almost breathlessly. So
he said good-night and went away.

She stood on the dim lawn, her arms full of blossoms, listening
to the sound of the wheels until they died away beyond the park
gate.

She had turned whiter than the lilies at her breast. This was
because she was still very young and not quite as wise as some
maidens.

For the same reason she left her warm bed that night to creep
through the garden and slip into the stable and lay