ly what I actually spent,
remember; what I told you when you wrote me at Hector's death; not
this ample interest. You forget, Miss Caron, that your brother was my
friend."

"No I cannot forget that. It lives with me," she rejoined softly. But
she took back the surplus notes. "And I have my gratitude left still,"
she added, smiling.

"Believe me, there is no occasion for gratitude. Why, what less could
one do?"

"One could pass by on the other side."

"He was not fallen among thieves," was his reply; "he was among
Englishmen, the old allies of the French."

"But the Priests and the Levites, people of his own
country--Frenchmen--passed him by. They were infamous in falsehood,
cruel to him and to me.--You are an Englishman; you have heart and
kindness."

He hesitated, then he gravely said: "Do not trust Englishmen more than
you trust your own countrymen. We are selfish even in our friendships
often. We stick to one person, and to benefit that one we sacrifice
others. Have you found all Englishmen--and WOMEN unselfish?" He
looked at her steadily; but immediately repented that he had asked the
question, for he had in his mind one whom they both knew, too well,
perhaps; and he added quickly: "You see, I am not kind."

They were standing now in the sunlight just outside the house. His hands
were thrust down in the pockets of his linen coat; her hands opening and
shutting her parasol slightly. They might, from their appearance, have
been talking of very inconsequent things.

Her eyes lifted sorrowfully to his. "Ah, monsieur," she rejoined, "there
are two times when one must fear a woman." She answered his question
more directly than he could have conjectured. But she felt that she must
warn him.

"I do not understand," he said.

"Of course you do not. Only women themselves understand that the two
times when one must fear a woman are when she hates, and when she
loves--after a kind. When she gets wicked or mad enough to hate, either
through jealousy or because she cannot love where she would, she is
merciless. She does not know the honour of the game. She has no pity.
Then, sometimes when she loves in a way, she is, as you say, most
selfish. I mean a love which--is not possible. Then she does some mad
act--all women are a little mad sometimes. Most of us wish to be good,
but we are quicksilver...."

Roscoe's mind had been working fast. He saw she meant to warn him
against Mrs. Falchion. His face flushed slightly.