him.

"I have told you the truth; so help me! There she is now; look!"

Joyce turned as Billy pointed to the window.

Outside, near the grave of _her_ baby, stood Constance Drew and the girl
whose picture Billy held limply in his hand.

Constance Drew was talking, but the stranger's sweet face was turned
toward the house, and Joyce saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"Billy"; Joyce clutched the thin shoulder; "put that back! Now lock the
chest, and listen. If you ever tell a living soul what you have
done--Mr. Gaston will--kill you!"

Billy obeyed with dumb fear.

"Now, go out of the shed door. Go--don't let them see you!"

Billy was gone, forgetting even to mention the letter lying on the
living-room table.

Then Joyce waited. Out in front, they two--Miss Drew and that
girl--seemed rooted to the spot near the baby's grave.

Feeling had departed from Joyce--she simply waited.

Finally they, outside, turned. They walked directly to the house, and
knocked. They knocked again.

"It's etiquette to go in, if the house is empty." It was Constance
Drew's voice. "St. Ange and New York have different ideas. Leave things
as you find them, that's the only social commandment here." A hand was
on the latch.

"Connie, I cannot! It does not seem decent." _That_ voice sank deep into
the listening heart behind the barrier.

"Well, then, I'll write her a letter. I'm sorry I asked Jock Filmer to
take a verbal invitation. She might think--"

"That's better, Connie, and while you and Ralph drive over to Hillcrest
this afternoon, I'll bring it here; perhaps she will be at home then."

Joyce heard them turn. She watched them until the pine trees hid them;
then her heart beat feebly.

Presently she went to the table, and there her eyes fell on the letter
Billy had brought. Quietly she took it up, opened it, and read it once,
twice, then the third time.

Finally it dropped to her feet, and, with hands groping before her,
Joyce staggered to Gaston's deep chair and fell heavily into it.

CHAPTER XVII

Joyce did not faint, nor did she lose consciousness. A dull quiet
possessed her, and, had she tried to explain her state of mind, she
would have said she was thinking things out.

In reality Destiny, or whatever we choose to call that power which
controls things that _must be_, had the woman completely in its grip.
Whatever she was to do would be done without any actual forethought or
preparation; she would rea