filled
her eyes to overflow, and she was determined to smile to the end, the
sweet, brave woman. From time to time she cast a sidelong glance at the
road. She was in haste to go, to fly from the sound of that spiteful
voice, which pursued her pitilessly.

At last he ceased; he had told the whole story. She bowed and walked
toward the door.

"Are you going? What a hurry you're in!" said the grandfather, following
her outside.

At heart he was a little ashamed of his savagery.

"Won't you breakfast with me?"

She shook her head, not having strength to speak.

"At least wait till the carriage is ready--some one will drive you to the
station."

No, still no.

And she walked on, with the old man close behind her. Proudly, and with
head erect, she crossed the courtyard, filled with souvenirs of her
childhood, without once looking behind. And yet what echoes of hearty
laughter, what sunbeams of her younger days were imprinted in the tiniest
grain of gravel in that courtyard!

Her favorite tree, her favorite bench, were still in the same place. She
had not a glance for them, nor for the pheasants in the aviary, nor even
for the great dog Kiss, who followed her docilely, awaiting the caress
which she did not give him. She had come as a child of the house, she
went away as a stranger, her mind filled with horrible thoughts which the
slightest reminder of her peaceful and happy past could not have failed
to aggravate.

"Good-by, grandfather."

"Good-by, then."

And the gate closed upon her harshly. As soon as she was alone, she began
to walk swiftly, swiftly, almost to run. She was not merely going away,
she was escaping. Suddenly, when she reached the end of the wall of the
estate, she found herself in front of the little green gate, surrounded
by nasturtiums and honeysuckle, where the chateau mail-box was. She
stopped instinctively, struck by one of those sudden awakenings of the
memory which take place within us at critical moments and place before
our eyes with wonderful clearness of outline the most trivial acts of our
lives bearing any relation to present disasters or joys. Was it the red
sun that suddenly broke forth from the clouds, flooding the level expanse
with its oblique rays in that winter afternoon as at the sunset hour in
August? Was it the silence that surrounded her, broken only by the
harmonious sounds of nature, which are almost alike at all seasons?

Whatever the cause she saw herself once mo