s he led, and with a Dubroca
beside each aunt, and Aline and Chester following, this remnant of the
company approached the Conti Street corner, on the way to the
Chapdelaine home. At the turn----

"Mademoiselle," Chester asked in a desperation too much like hers
before the arch-bishop, "do you notice that, as the old hymn says, we
are treading where the saints have trod? _Your_ saints?"

"My--ah, yes, 'tis true. 'Tis here _grand'mere_----

"Turned that corner in her life where your _grandpere_ first saw her.
Al'--Aline."

"Mr. Chester?"

"I want this corner, from the day I first saw you turn it, to be all
that to you and me. Shall it not?"

She said nothing. Priceless moments glided by, each a dancing ghost.
Just there ahead in the dark was Bourbon Street, and a short way down
among its huddled shadows were her board fence and batten gate. It was
senseless to have taken this chance on so poor a margin of time, but
what's done's done! "Oh, Aline Chapdelaine, say it shall be! Say it,
Aline, say it!"

"Mr. Chester, it is impossible! Impossible!"

"It is not! It's the only right thing! It shall be, Aline, it shall
be!"

"No, Mr. Chester, 'tis impossible. You must not ask me why, but 'tis
impossible!"

"It isn't! Aline, and I ask no why. I see the trouble. It's your
aunts. Why, I'll take them with you, _of course_! I'll take them into
my care and love as you have them in yours, and keep them there while
they and I live. I can do it, I've got the wherewithal! Things have
happened to me fast since I first saw you turn that corner behind us.
I've inherited property, and only yesterday I was taken into one of the
best law firms in the city. I'll prove all that to you and your aunts
to-morrow. Aline, unspeakable treasure, you shall not live the
buried-alive life in which you are trying to believe yourself rightly
placed and happy, my saint! My--adored--_saint_!"

"Yes, I must. What you ask is impossible."

XXXIX

Long after midnight Chester had not returned to his room. He could not
tolerate the confinement even of the narrow streets round about it.

Far out Esplanade Avenue, uncompanioned, he was walking mile after mile
beside a belt line of trolley-cars, or more than one, while at home, in
Bourbon Street, Cupid slept.

But now the child awoke, startled. Four small feet were on one of his
arms, and Marie Madeleine was purring, at the top of her purr, in his
ear. Drowsily he cr