led in my pocket.

"I obtained it again, Madame," I said.

"You obtained it!" she cried, I am not sure to this day whether in
consternation or jest. In passing, it was not just what I wanted to say.

"I meant to give it you last night," I said.

"And why did you not?" she demanded severely.

I felt her eyes on me, and it seemed to me as if she were looking into
my very soul. Even had it been otherwise, I could not have told her how
I had lived with this picture night and day, how I had dreamed of it,
how it had been my inspiration and counsel. I drew it from my pocket,
wrapped as it was in the handkerchief, and uncovered it with a reverence
which she must have marked, for she turned away to pick a yellow flower
by the roadside. I thank Heaven that she did not laugh. Indeed, she
seemed to be far from laughter.

"You have taken good care of it, Monsieur," she said. "I thank you."

"It was not mine, Madame," I answered.

"And if it had been?" she asked.

It was a strange prompting.

"If it had been, I could have taken no better care of it," I answered,
and I held it towards her.

She took it simply.

"And the handkerchief?" she said.

"The handkerchief was Polly Ann's," I answered.

She stopped to pick a second flower that had grown by the first.

"Who is Polly Ann?" she said.

"When I was eleven years of age and ran away from Temple Bow after
my father died, Polly Ann found me in the hills. When she married Tom
McChesney they took me across the mountains into Kentucky with them.
Polly Ann has been more than a mother to me."

"Oh!" said Madame la Vicomtesse. Then she looked at me with a stranger
expression than I had yet seen in her face. She thrust the miniature in
her gown, turned, and walked in silence awhile. Then she said:--

"So Auguste sold it again?"

"Yes," I said.

"He seems to have found a ready market only in you," said the
Vicomtesse, without turning her head. "Here we are at Lamarque's."

What I saw was a low, weather-beaten cabin on the edge of a clearing,
and behind it stretched away in prim rows the vegetables which the old
Frenchman had planted. There was a little flower garden, too, and an
orchard. A path of beaten earth led to the door, which was open. There
we paused. Seated at a rude table was Lamarque himself, his hoary head
bent over the cards he held in his hand. Opposite him was Mr. Nicholas
Temple, in the act of playing the ace of spades. I think that it was
the laughte