n boats fishing, with
cries of mock fear and laughter over the catch of crabs. It seemed to
her a deliciously abrupt change from the dark cabin and the ship odors
to a pretty, smiling coast, with the smoke pennons of hospitable
welcome inviting to enter and share what God had so freely given.

A white-cloth-covered table was set out on deck with tea-things,
strawberries, and red roses the mate had gathered. As she turned, to
thank the captain who had come aft to meet her, he saw his passenger for
the first time. At Bristol she had come aboard at evening and through a
voyage of storms she had remained in her cabin, too ill to do more than
think of a hapless past and of a future dark with she knew not what new
disasters.

What he saw was a tall, slight woman whose snow-white hair made more
noticeable the nearly complete black of her widow's dress, relieved only
by a white collar, full white wrist ruffles, and a simple silver
chatelaine from which hung a bunch of keys and a small enameled watch.
At present she was sallow and pale, but, except for somewhat too notable
regularity of rather pronounced features, the most observant student of
expression could have seen no more in her face at the moment than an
indefinable stamp of good breeding and perhaps, on larger opportunity,
an unusual incapacity to exhibit emotional states, whether of grief,
joy, or the lighter humors of every-day social relation.

The captain listened with a pleasure he could not have explained as her
voice expressed in beautiful French the happiness of which her face
reported no signal. The son gaily translated or laughed as now and then
she tried at a phrase or two of the little English picked up during her
stay in England.

When they had finished their supper, young De Courval asked if she were
tired and would wish to go below. To his surprise she said: "No, Rene.
We are to-morrow to be in a new country, and it is well that as far as
may be we settle our accounts with the past."

"Well, mother, what is it? What do you wish?"

"Let us sit down together. Yes, here. I have something to ask. Since you
came back to Normandy in the autumn of 1791 with the news of your
father's murder, I have asked for no particulars."

"No, and I was glad that you did not."

"Later, my son, I was no more willing to hear, and even after our ruin
and flight to England last January, my grief left me no desire to be
doubly pained. But now--now, I have felt that even at