and followed her up the confined
staircase. Turning sharply at the head of the first flight he saw before
him a long narrow passage, lighted by a window that looked to the back.
On the left of the passage which led to a second set of stairs, were two
doors, one near the head of the lower flight, the other at the foot of
the second. She led him past both--they were closed--and up the second
stairs and into a room under the tiles, a room of good size but with a
roof which sloped in unexpected places.

A woman lay there, not uncomely; rather comely with the beauty of
advancing years, though weak and frail if not ill. It was the woman of
whom he had so often heard his father speak with gratitude and respect.
It was neither of his father, however, nor of her, that Claude Mercier
thought as he stood holding Madame Royaume's hand and looking down at
her. For the girl who had gone before him into the room had passed to
the other side of the bed, and the glance which she and her mother
exchanged as the daughter leant over the couch, the message of love and
protection on one side, of love and confidence on the other--that
message and the tone, wondrous gentle, in which the girl, so curt and
abrupt below, named him--these revealed a bond and an affection for
which the life of his own family furnished him with no precedent.

For his mother had many children, and his father still lived. But these
two, his heart told him as he held Madame Royaume's shrivelled hand in
his, were alone. They had each but the other, and lived each in the
other, in this room under the tiles with the deep-set dormer windows
that looked across the Pays de Gex to the Jura. For how much that
prospect of vale and mountain stood in their lives, how often they rose
to it from the same bed, how often looked at it in sunshine and shadow
with the house still and quiet below them, he seemed to know--to guess.
He had a swift mental vision of their lives, and then Madame Royaume's
voice recalled him to himself.

"You are newly come to Geneva?" she said, gazing at him.

"I arrived yesterday."

"Yes, yes, of course," she answered. She spoke quickly and nervously.
"Yes, you told me so." And she turned to her daughter and laid her hand
on hers as if she talked more easily so. "Your father, Monsieur
Mercier," with an obvious effort, "is well, I hope?"

"Perfectly, and he begged me to convey his grateful remembrances. Those
of my mother also," the young man added warm