ut "la liberte et ses
plaisirs, la jeunesse, l'amour."

The mother grew sterner--any such wife and mother would. Then and
there, compassion might have died out of even her good heart, had it
not been for the sudden noise over-head of children's feet--children's
chattering. Once more the pitiful thought came--"She has no children."

"Caroline," she said, catching her gown as she passed, "when I was with
you, you had a child which only breathed and died. It died spotless.
When you die, how dare you meet that little baby?"

The singing changed to sobbing. "I had forgotten. My little baby! Oh,
mon Dieu, mon Dieu!"

Mrs. Halifax, taking in earnest those meaningless French ejaculations,
whispered something about Him who alone can comfort and help us all.

"Him! I never knew Him, if indeed He be. No, no, there is no
after-life."

Ursula turned away in horror. "John, what shall we do with her? No
home!--no husband!--no God!"

"He never leaves Himself without a witness. Look, love."

The wretched woman sat rocking to and fro--weeping and wringing her
hands. "It was cruel--cruel! You should not have spoken about my
baby. Now--"

"Tell me--just one word--I will not believe anybody's word except your
own. Caroline, are you--still innocent?"

Lady Caroline shrank from her touch. "Don't hold me so. You may have
one standard of virtue, I another."

"Still, tell me."

"And if I did, you, an 'honourable English matron'--was not that your
husband's word?--would turn from me, most likely."

"She will not," John said. "She has been happy, and you most
miserable."

"Oh, most miserable."

That bitter groan went to both their hearts, Ursula leaned over
her--herself almost in tears. "Cousin Caroline, John says true--I will
not turn from you. I know you have been sinned
against--cruelly--cruelly. Only tell me that you yourself have not
sinned."

"I HAVE 'sinned,' as you call it."

Ursula started--drew closer to her husband. Neither spoke.

"Mrs. Halifax, why don't you take away your hand?"

"I?--let me think. This is terrible. Oh, John!"

Again Lady Caroline said, in her sharp, bold tone, "Take away your
hand."

"Husband, shall I?"

"No."

For some minutes they stood together, both silent, with this poor
woman. I call her "poor," as did they, knowing, that if a sufferer
needs pity, how tenfold more does a sinner!

John spoke first. "Cousin Caroline." She lifted up her head in
amazemen