l
see."

"Do you really think so, madame?" murmured Jeanne, in whose tear-stained
eyes the indomitable hopefulness of youth was already striving to shine.

"I am sure of it," assented Marguerite.

And for the moment she was absolutely sincere. The phantom had entirely
vanished. She would even, had he dared to re-appear, have mocked and
derided him for his futile attempt at turning the sorrow in her heart to
a veritable hell of bitterness.

CHAPTER XXXIII. LITTLE MOTHER

The two women, both so young still, but each of them with a mark of
sorrow already indelibly graven in her heart, were clinging to one
another, bound together by the strong bond of sympathy. And but for
the sadness of it all it were difficult to conjure up a more beautiful
picture than that which they presented as they stood side by side;
Marguerite, tall and stately as an exquisite lily, with the crown of
her ardent hair and the glory of her deep blue eyes, and Jeanne Lange,
dainty and delicate, with the brown curls and the child-like droop of
the soft, moist lips.

Thus Armand saw them when, a moment or two later, entered unannounced.
He had pushed open the door and looked on the two women silently for a
second or two; on the girl whom he loved so dearly, for whose sake
he had committed the great, the unpardonable sin which would send him
forever henceforth, Cain-like, a wanderer on the face of the earth;
and the other, his sister, her whom a Judas act would condemn to lonely
sorrow and widowhood.

He could have cried out in an agony of remorse, and it was the groan
of acute soul anguish which escaped his lips that drew Marguerite's
attention to his presence.

Even though many things that Jeanne Lange had said had prepared her for
a change in her brother, she was immeasurably shocked by his appearance.
He had always been slim and rather below the average in height, but
now his usually upright and trim figure seemed to have shrunken within
itself; his clothes hung baggy on his shoulders, his hands appeared
waxen and emaciated, but the greatest change was in his face, in the
wide circles round the eyes, that spoke of wakeful nights, in the hollow
cheeks, and the mouth that had wholly forgotten how to smile.

Percy after a week's misery immured in a dark and miserable prison,
deprived of food and rest, did not look such a physical wreck as did
Armand St. Just, who was free.

Marguerite's heart reproached her for what she felt had been neg