gain--he will come back--they always do." But
though she smiled, a curious foreboding and a sort of fear seized upon
her.

At the chateau Calvert found Mr. Jefferson making his adieux to Madame
d'Azay and her guests. The horses had been ordered, and in a few minutes
the gentlemen were ready to start. D'Azay walked with Calvert to where
Bertrand stood holding them.

"'Tis an infernal shame, Ned," he said, in a low tone, wringing the
young man's hand. "I guessed thy mission down here and thy face tells me
how it has gone. As for myself, I would have wished for nothing better.
Perhaps she may change her mind--all women do," he added, hopefully. But
Calvert only shook his head.

"She is for some greater and luckier man than I," he said, quietly,
taking the reins from Bertrand, and waving an adieu to the young lord as
he rode down the avenue.

As d'Azay slowly made his way back to the chateau, Bertrand stood for a
moment looking after him before mounting to follow Mr. Jefferson and
Calvert.

"And so," he said, half-aloud, "that was Monsieur's reason for coming
to Azay-le-Roi! And she won't have him! All women are fools, and these
great ladies seem to be the biggest fools of all. She will not find his
equal among the white-livered aristocrats who swarm around her. I wish I
could revenge Monsieur for this," he said, savagely, and jumping on his
horse he rode after the two gentlemen.

The journey back to Tours was made more quickly than coming, and Mr.
Jefferson was so full of his visit to Azay-le-Roi as not to notice
Calvert's preoccupation and silence. They rode into the town in the late
afternoon and made their way to the Boule d'Or, where Calvert, who had a
sudden longing to be alone, left Mr. Jefferson writing letters, and
strolled back into the old town.

Almost before he was aware of it he found himself in the little square
before the great Cathedral. With a sudden impulse he entered and leaned
against one of the fretted columns. A chorister was practising softly in
the transept overhead. 'Twas the _benedictus_ from one of Mozart's
masses.

"_Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini_," he sang over and over again.
Calvert could not see the singer, but the young voice floated downward,
reminding him of his own boyish voice. He closed his eyes and bowed his
head against the cold stone. When he could stand it no longer, he went
softly down the echoing aisle of the church, out through the great
doors, into the yellow