urmured to the vendeuse with a
break in her voice, "and he always said that nothing became a woman like
black."

* * * * *

There is a little village on the Seine. An old grey church nestles among
the huddling houses. A platoon of poplars guards the river, and little
pink almond bushes spring out of patches of violets. Miss Wilcox,
calling herself Mrs. Demarest, lives in a charming old house surrounded
by box hedges, paved paths lead through beds of old-fashioned
sweet-scented flowers, stocks and wall flowers and mignonette and moss
roses, lavender, myrtle, thyme and sweet geranium. Mr. Demarest, it
appears, could not bear the wonderful new varieties of huge, smell-less
blooms.

Miss Wilcox has never gone out of mourning, though she sometimes wears
grey and mauve. Her gracious sweetness has made her much beloved in the
village where her gentle presence is loved and honoured. She can often
be seen bringing soup to some old invalid, or taking flowers to the
church she loves to decorate. Her charity and her piety are revered by
all. Sometimes in the evening she plays a game of cards with her
neighbours or chess with the cure. It is known that a rich man from the
adjoining town proposed marriage to her, but she continues to mourn her
late husband with profound devoted fidelity. She is too unselfish to
force her grief on to others, but every one knows that her heart is
broken. Sometimes she talks of her sorrow--very gently, very
uncomplainingly, and there are always flowers in front of the photograph
of her husband on her writing table. He must have been a magnificent
man--huge, with whimsical smiling eyes. Every one in the village feels
as if they had known him. They have heard so much about him. He had only
seen Miss Wilcox three times when he walked into her cottage. Standing
in the doorway--"Ellen," he said, and she went to him--

"I suppose I knew it was for always," she explains gently. "It has been
a short always on earth--but so happy, so very happy."

All the girls of the village go to Mrs. Demarest before they marry. Her
wise counsel and the radiant memory of her happiness lights them on
their way.

"I have had everything," she says, "and now I have found peace."

It is the severity of suffering bravely borne. She has called her house
"Haven."

II

TWO PARIS EPISODES

[_To ANTHONY ASQUITH_]

I: THE STORY OF A COAT

"Le Printemps a brule cette nuit." The news g