ne woman best.

All this, however, Dickie did not know. He only knew they dazzled
him--the man triumphantly strong, the woman so bravely glad. He could
not watch them any longer. He went hot all over, and his heart beat. He
felt strangely desolate too. They were far away from him in thought, in
fact, though so close by. Dickie shut his eyes, put his arms round the
bull-dog, pressed his face hard against the faithful beast's shoulder;
while Camp, stretching his short neck to the uttermost, nuzzled against
him and essayed to lick his cheek.

Thus did Richard Calmady gain yet further knowledge of things as they
are.

CHAPTER IV

WHICH SMELLS VERY VILELY OF THE STABLE

April softened into May, and the hawthorns were in blossom before
Richard passed any other very note-worthy milestone on the road of
personal development. Then, greatly tempted, he committed a venial sin;
received prompt and coarse chastisement; and, by means of the said
chastisement, as is the merciful way of the Eternal Justice, found
unhoped of emancipation.

It happened thus. As the spring days grew warm Mademoiselle de
Mirancourt failed somewhat. The darkness and penetrating chill of the
English winter tried her, and this year her recuperative powers seemed
sadly deficient. A fuller tide of life had pulsed through Brockhurst
since Colonel Ormiston's arrival. The old stillness was departing, the
old order changing. With that change Mademoiselle de Mirancourt had no
quarrel, since, to her serene faith, all that came must, of necessity,
come through a divine ordering and in conformity to a divine plan. Yet
this more of activity and of movement strained her. The weekly drive
over to Westchurch, to hear mass at the humble Catholic chapel tucked
away in a side street, sorely taxed her strength. She returned
fortified, her soul ravished by that heavenly love, which, in pure and
innocent natures, bears such gracious kinship to earthly love. Yet in
body she was outworn and weary. On such occasions she would rally
Julius March, not without a touch of malice, saying:--

"Ah! _tres cher ami_, had you only followed the ever blessed footsteps
of those dear Oxford friends of yours and entered the fold of the true
Church, what fatigue might you not now spare me--let alone the
incalculable advantages to your own poor, charming, fatally darkened
soul!"

While Julius--who, though no less devout than of yore, was happily less
fastidiously sensitive--would