in Lola Laval's deserted
house.

In the sudden up-springing of this hope, Joyce quite forgot the face of
the woman at the bungalow.

A freakish yearning to reproduce the one crowning moment of her life
possessed the girl.

She would build a great fire upon the hearth, and make the room
beautiful. She would don--the yellow gown, and, if he came, he should
find her as he had left her.

If he still loved her--and she saw it in his eyes--then nothing, nothing
should part them.

She would go with him to Lola's house and together they would finish the
dreary search. She would beg him never to return to St. Ange. What did
the world matter, the people of the world? Nothing mattered but him and
her.

So Joyce flew to the bidding of her mad fancy. She drew the shades and
flung on log after log. She swept and dusted the room. Put Gaston's
slippers and house-coat close to the warmth. She lighted the lamp to
keep up the delusion, then stole to her room and made ready.

Again, as the garments of the daily task fell from her, Joyce felt the
sordidness and fearsomeness depart.

The lovely hair lent itself to the pretty design, and the golden gown
transfigured the wearer.

She felt sure Gaston was coming. The premonition grew and grew. He would
never leave her to bear the Christmas alone. He might return later to
search for Jude but, remembering her in the shack, he would come to her
for that one, holy day.

He would surprise her. And she?--why, she would surprise him.

How he would laugh and take her in his arms!--for it was all clear ahead
of them now. She would lead him to Jude!

A knock at the outer door startled her. She was about to leave her
bedchamber complete and beautiful--but the summons stayed the little
satin-shod feet, and the colour left the quivering face.

Perhaps Gaston had knocked to keep up the conceit of his home-coming
surprise!

Tiptoeing across the living room, Joyce took her stand by the table and
called timidly, expectantly and awesomely:

"Come."

The latch lifted and some one pressed against the door, and then, in
walked Ruth Dale.

She wore the heavy crimson cloak of Constance's, the fur-trimmed hood of
which encircled her face.

Coming from the outer sunlight into the lamp-lighted room, Ruth Dale
stood for a moment, dazzled and confused. Then her grave, kindly eyes
were riveted upon the splendid, straight young form confronting her.

Never in her life had Ruth Dale been so utterl