dy is to know that--now
all is ended."

"Yes," said Dorothy.

When they came to the house, Archibald Grahame and Lady Hesketh
met them at the door. Molly Hesketh had wept a great deal at
first. She wept still, but more moderately.

"My angel child!" she said, taking Dorothy to her bosom. Grahame
took off his hat.

The old people hurried to Jack's room above; Dorothy, guided by
Lorraine, hastened to Rickerl; Archibald Grahame looked genially
at Molly and said:

"Now don't, Lady Hesketh--I beg you won't. Try to be cheerful. We
must find something to divert you."

"I don't wish to," said Molly.

"There is a band concert this afternoon in the Place Turenne,"
suggested Grahame.

"I'll never go," said Molly; "I haven't anything fit to wear."

In the room above, Madame de Morteyn sat with Jack's hand in
hers, smiling through her tears. The old vicomte stood beside
her, one arm clasping Lorraine's slender waist.

"Children! children! wicked ones!" he repeated, "how dare you
marry each other like two little heathen?"

"It comes, my dear, from your having married an American wife,"
said Madame de Morteyn, brushing away the tears; "they do those
things in America."

"America!" grumbled the vicomte, perfectly delighted--"a nice
country for young savages. Lorraine, you at least should have
known better."

"I did," said Lorraine; "I ought to have married Jack long ago."

The vicomte was speechless; Jack laughed and pressed his aunt's
hands.

They spoke of Morteyn, of their hope that one day they might
rebuild it. They spoke, too, of Paris, cuirassed with steel,
flinging defiance to the German floods that rolled towards the
walls from north, south, west, and east.

"There is no death," said Lorraine; "the years renew their life.
We shall all live. France will be reborn."

"There is no death," repeated the old man, and kissed her on the
brow.

So they stood there in the sunlight, tearless, serene, moved by the
prophecy of their child Lorraine. And Lorraine sat beside her husband,
her fathomless blue eyes dreaming in the sunlight--dreaming of her
Province of Lorraine, of the Honour of France, of the Justice of
God--dreaming of love and the sweetness of her youth, unfolding like
a fresh rose at dawn, there on her husband's breast.

THE END

BOOKS BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

LORRAINE. Post 8vo $1.25

THE CONSPIRATORS. Ill'd. Post 8vo 1.50

A