be brave enough to face his misery, if it must
come. For we know that courage has its hour of comfort.... When such a
man as you speak of has his dark hour he will stand firm."

Then with a great impulse he added: "This man whom I know did wrong, but
he was falsely accused of doing a still greater. The consequence of the
first thing followed him. He could never make restitution. Years went
by. Some one knew that dark spot in his life--his Nemesis."

"The worst Nemesis in this life, monsieur, is always a woman," she
interrupted.

"Perhaps she is the surest," he continued. "The woman faced him in the
hour of his peace and--" he paused. His voice was husky.

"Yes, 'and,' monsieur?"

"And he knows that she would ruin him, and kill his heart and destroy
his life."

"The waters of Marah are bitter," she murmured, and she turned her face
away from him to the woods. There was no trouble there. The birds were
singing, black squirrels were jumping from bough to bough, and they
could hear the tapping of the woodpecker. She slowly drew on her gloves,
as if for occupation.

He spoke at length as though thinking aloud: "But he knows that,
whatever comes, life has had for him more compensations than he
deserves. For, in his trouble, a woman came, and said kind words, and
would have helped him if she could."

"There were TWO women," she said solemnly.

"Two women?" he repeated slowly.

"The one stayed in her home and prayed, and the other came."

"I do not understand," he said: and he spoke truly.

"Love is always praying for its own, therefore one woman prayed at home.
The other woman who came was full of gratitude, for the man was noble,
she owed him a great debt, and she believed in him always. She knew that
if at any time in his life he had done wrong, the sin was without malice
or evil."

"The woman is gentle and pitiful with him, God knows."

She spoke quietly now, and her gravity looked strange in one so young.

"God knows she is just, and would see him fairly treated. She is so far
beneath him! and yet one can serve a friend though one is humble and
poor."

"How strange," he rejoined, "that the man should think himself miserable
who is befriended in such a way! Mademoiselle, he will carry to his
grave the kindness of this woman."

"Monsieur," she added humbly, yet with a brave light in her eyes, "it is
good to care whether the wind blows bitter or kind. Every true woman is
a mother, though she have no chi