ld her a hundred times that the wall is unsafe."

"Shall I go and warn her the hundred-and-first time?" asked Loo, willing
enough.

"Yes, my friend, do. And speak to her severely. She is only a child,
remember."

"Yes--I will remember that."

Juliette did not seem to hear his approach across the turf where the
goats fed now, but stood with her back toward him, a few feet below him,
actually in that breach effected long ago by those pestilential English.
They must have prized out the great stones with crowbars and torn them
down with their bare hands.

Juliette was looking over the vineyards toward the river, which gleamed
across the horizon. She was humming to herself the last lines of the
song:

D'un bout du monde
A l'autre bout,
Le Hasard seul fait tout.

She turned with a pretty swing of her skirts to gather them in her hand.

"You must go no farther, mademoiselle," said Loo.

She stopped, half bending to take her skirt, but did not look back. Then
she took two steps downward from stone to stone. The blocks were
half embedded in the turf and looked ready to fall under the smallest
additional weight.

"It is not I who say so, but your father who sent me," explained the
admonisher from above.

"Since it is all chance--" she said, looking downward.

She turned suddenly and looked up at him with that impatience which
gives way in later life to a philosophy infinitely to be dreaded when it
comes; for its real name is Indifference.

Her movements were spasmodic and quick as if something angered her, she
knew not what; as if she wanted something, she knew not what.

"I suppose," she said, "that it was chance that saved our lives that
night two months ago, out there."

And she stood with one hand stretched out behind her pointing toward the
estuary, which was quiet enough now, looking up at him with that strange
anger or new disquietude--it was hard to tell which--glowing in her
eyes. The wind fluttered her hair, which was tied low down with a ribbon
in the mode named "a la diable" by some French wit with a sore heart in
an old man's breast. For none other could have so aptly described it.

"All chance, mademoiselle," he answered, looking over her head toward
the river.

"And it would have been the same had it been only Marie or Marie and
Jean in the boat with you?"

"The boat would have been as solid and the ropes as strong."

"And you?" asked the girl, with a glance from her persist