t this tall, beautiful lady, who
had come to inquire after Jeanne-Marie; and Madelon left
Graham below, and went up alone to the little bed-room, where
she had spent so many hours. It was hardly altered. The bed
stood in the old place; the vines clustered round the window.
Madelon's heart was full of sorrow; she had loved Jeanne-Marie
so much, and more and more perhaps, as years went on, and she
had learnt to understand better all that the woman had done
for her--and she had died alone--she who had saved her life.

When she came down again Louise had reappeared, and was
waiting to conduct them to the churchyard. The child went on
in front, and they followed her in silence down the village
street. It was already evening, the sun had sunk behind the
hills; the men were returning from their work; the children
were playing and shouting, and the women stood gossiping
before their doors. All was life and animation in the little
village, where a strange, silent woman had once passed to and
fro, with deeds and words of kindness for the suffering and
sorrowful, but who would be seen there no more.

"There is the grave," says Louise, pointing it out to them. It
was in a corner of the little graveyard; the earth was still
fresh over it, and the black cross at its head was one of the
newest amongst the hundred similar ones round about. Graham
dismissed the child with a gratuity, and he and Madelon went
up to the grave. There was no name, only the initials J. M. R.
painted on the cross beneath the three white tears, and the
customary "_Priez pour elle!_" Some one had hung up a wreath of
immortelles, and a rose-tree, twined round a neighbouring
cross, had shed its petals above Jeanne-Marie's head.

Madelon knelt down and began to pull out some weeds that had
sprung up, whilst Graham stood looking on. Long afterwards,
one might fancy, would that hour still live in his memory--the
peaceful stillness brooding over the little graveyard, the
sunset sky, the sheltering hills, the scent of the falling
roses, and Madelon, in her dark dress, kneeling by the grave.
Her task was soon accomplished, but she knelt on motionless.
Who shall say of what she was thinking? Something perhaps of
the real meaning of life, of its great underlying sadness,
ennobled by patient suffering, by unselfish devotion, for
presently she turned round to Graham.

"Oh, Horace," she said, "help me to be good; I am not, you
know, but I would like to be----and you