big north-west wind had passed
through it.

Then Toinette sat down on the bed, rubbing the little white mark on
her finger where the ring had been, and staring through the window at
the church as if she were hypnotised. All sorts of dark and cloudy
thoughts were trooping around her. Perhaps Prosper had met with an
accident, or he was sick; or perhaps the suspicions and unjust
reproaches with which he had sometimes wounded her lately had grown
into his mind, so that he was angry with her and did not want to see
her. Perhaps some one had been telling lies to him, and made him mad,
and there was a fight, and a knife--she could see him lying on the
floor of a tavern, in a little red puddle, with white face and staring
eyes, cold and reproachful. Would he never come back, come home?

In the front of the store sleigh-bells jingled. It was probably some
customer. No, she knew in her heart it was her husband!

But she could not go to him,--he must come to her, here, away from
that hateful old woman. A step sounded in the hall, the door opened,
Prosper stood before her. She ran to him and threw her arms around
him. But he did not answer her kiss. His voice was as cold as his
hands.

"Well," he said, "I come back sooner than you expected, eh? A little
surprise--like a story-book."

She could not speak, her heart was beating in her throat, her arms
dropped at her side.

"You are fond of your bed," he went on, "you rise late, and your
room,--it looks like mad. Perhaps you had company. A party?--or a
fracas?"

Her cheeks flamed, her eyes filled with tears, her mouth quivered, but
no words came.

"Well," he continued, "you don't say much, but you look well. I
suppose you had a good time while I was gone. Why have you taken off
your wedding-ring? When a woman does that, she----"

Her face went very white, her eyes burned, she spoke with her deepest,
slowest note.

"Stop, Prosper, you are unjust, something has made you crazy, some one
has told you lies. You are insulting me, you are hurting me,--but
I,--well, I am the one that loves you always. So I will tell you what
has happened. Sit down there on the bed and be quiet. You have a right
to know it all,--and I have the right to tell you."

Then she stood before him, with her right hand covering the white mark
on the ring-finger, and told him the strange story of the Mass for the
dead who had been too much loved. He listened with changing eyes, now
full of doubt, now ful