ad not quite made up its mind about him, there were
a number of things in his favour. In the first place, the Cure seemed
satisfied; secondly, he minded his own business. Also, he was working
for Louis Trudel for nothing. These things Jo Portugais diligently
impressed on the minds of all who would listen.

From above the frosted part of the windows of the post-office, in the
corner where she sorted letters, Rosalie could look over at the tailor's
shop at an angle; could sometimes even see M'sieu' standing at the long
table with a piece of chalk, a pair of shears, or a measure. She watched
the tailor-shop herself, but it annoyed her when she saw any one else
do so. She resented--she was a woman and loved monopoly--all inquiry
regarding M'sieu', so frequently addressed to her.

One afternoon, as Charley came out, on his way to the house on Vadrome
Mountain, she happened to be outside. He saw her, paused, lifted his fur
cap, and crossed the street to her.

"Have you, perhaps, paper, pens, and ink for sale, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, oh yes; come in, Monsieur Mallard."

"Ah, it is nice of you to remember me," he answered. "I see you every
day--often," she answered.

"Of course, we are neighbours," he responded. "The man--the
horse-trainer--is quite well again?"

"He has gone home almost well," she answered. She placed pens, paper,
and ink before him. "Will these do?"

"Perfectly," he answered mechanically, and laid a few pens and a bottle
of ink beside the paper.

"You were very brave that day," he said--they had not talked together
since, though seeing each other so often.

"Oh, no; I knew he would make friends with me--the hound."

"Of course," he rejoined.

"We should show animals that we trust them," she said, in some
confusion, for being near him made her heart throb painfully.

He did not answer. Presently his eye glanced at the paper again, and was
arrested. He ran his fingers over it, and a curious look flashed across
his face. He held the paper up to the light quickly, and looked through
it. It was thin, half-foreign paper, without lines, and there was a
water-mark in it-large, shadowy, filmy--Kathleen.

It was paper made in the mills which had belonged to Kathleen's uncle.
This water-mark was made to celebrate their marriage-day. Only for one
year had this paper been made, and then the trade in it was stopped. It
had gone its ways down the channels of commerce, and here it was in
his hand, a reminder,