ld be
together for a while, perhaps we should love each other a little. But
there is no time now----" She turned hastily, and threw herself down
before a crucifix.

After a long time she went out to the vestibule, where she found
Frances, and said, with an effort to be cheerful and matter-of-fact,
"Come, now, let us talk like reasonable people. A thing is coming to
me which comes to every-body. I'm not one to whine. But it's the
child--I don't think any baby ever was as much to a woman as Jacques is
to me. I suppose God does not think I am fit to bring him up. Sit
down and let me tell you all about it."

They sat on the steps, talking in a low tone. Frances cried, but
Lisa's eyes were quite dry and bright. She rose at last.

"You see, there will be no woman to care for him, if you do not. There
he is with Colette." She ran down, took the baby from the bonne, and
laid him in Frances's arms.

Mrs. Waldeaux looked down at him. "George's son," she whispered,
"George's boy!"

"He is very like George and you," Lisa answered. "He is a Waldeaux."

"Yes, I see."

She held him close to her breast as they drove back to Vannes. George
whistled and sang on the box. He was very light of heart to have her
with him again.

He looked impatiently at an ancient village through which they passed,
with its towers, and peasants in strange garbs, like the pictures in
some crusading tale.

"Now that we have mother, Lisa," he said, "we'll go straight back home.
I am tired of mediaeval times. I must get to work for this youngster."

Lisa did not speak for a moment. "I should like to stay in Vannes a
little longer," she said. "I did not tell you, but--my mother is
buried there. That was why I came; I should like to be with her."

"Why, of course, dear. As long as you like," he said affectionately.
"I will not detain you long. Perhaps only a week or two," she said.

He nodded, and began to whistle cheerfully again. Frances looked at
Lisa, and her eyes filled with tears. It was a pitiful tragedy!

But the poor girl was quite right not to worry George until the last
moment. She was blocking his way--ruining his life, and God was taking
her away so that she could no longer harm him.

And yet--poor Lisa!

They drove on. The sun warmed the crimson fields, and the birds
chirped, and this was George's child creeping close to her breast. It
stirred there a keen pang of joy.

Surely He had forgiven her.

A m