ogram in Denise's needle-work, the table, with an orderly litter of
papers, arranged by a woman's hand, and a white saucer filled with
purple heliotrope. The arm-chair is a trifle pushed aside, as if some
one has just risen, and another chair, as if for a guest, stands there.
He understands that she has been busy here. She gives a long sigh.

"My poor darling!"

She is weeping very softly in his arms.

"It is all so sad," she says, "and yet I know he is in heaven with
mamma. He loved her very much. Denise told me so. He would not wish to
come back even if he could, and it would be selfish to want him. He had
to suffer so much, poor papa! But I would like to keep this room just
so, and come now and then, if I might."

"You shall. I must talk to Denise." He wonders now how Lindmeyer would
like to be here for a month. There are so many things to go over.
"Yes," he continues, "this room shall be sacred. No one shall come here
but Denise and you."

"Thank you."

They go through to the study. He remembers the picture he saw here one
day. Then they continue their walk past her plain little nun's room,
with Denise's opening out of it. The house being built on a side-hill
makes this just above the kitchen. Down-stairs there are four more
rooms.

Never was man more at a loss for some of the kindly commonplaces of
society. She seems sacred in her grief, and he cannot offer the stern
comfort wherewith a man solaces himself; he is too new for the little
nothings of love, and so they walk gravely on, down the stairs again,
and out on the porch that hangs over the slope. But she likes him the
better for his silence, and the air of strength seems to stir her
languid pulses.

Denise summons them to their meal. He pours a trifle of wine for her in
the daintiest, thinnest glass, she pours tea for him in a cup that
would make a hunter of rare old china thrill to the finger-ends. He
puts a bit of the cold chicken on her plate, and insists that she shall
try the toast and the creamed potatoes. She has such a meek little
habit of obedience that he almost smiles.

When the dessert has been eaten and they rise, Denise says, with kindly
authority, "Go take a walk in the garden, Miss Violet, while I talk to
Mr. Grandon. Pardon me; madame, I mean."

Grandon smiles, and Violet, looking at him, smiles also, but goes with
her light movement, so full of grace.

"It is about the child's clothes, monsieur," Denise begins, her
wrinkled fac