neath the delicate tracery of
screen and staircase, and the gloriously-painted windows, and the image
of Jesus crucified looking down upon all, some groups of poor people
were murmuring their prayers and making the sign of the cross.

Ralph entered by a door in the choir. He saw Suzette stand pallidly
beside the holy water, and when she had touched it with the tips of her
fingers, and made the usual rites, she staggered, as if in shame, to a
remote chair, and kneeling down covered her face with her missal. Now
and then the organ boomed out. The censers were swung aloft, dispensing
their perfumes, and all the people made obeisance. Ralph did not know
what it all meant. He only saw his little girl penitent and in prayer,
and he knew that she was carrying her sin and his to the feet of the
Eternal Mercy.

He feigned sleep in the same way each Sunday succeeding, and she
disappeared as before. After a while she spoke of her family, and
wondered if her father would forgive her. She would not have forgiven
him three months ago, but was quite humble now.

She sent her photograph to the old man, and a letter came back, the
first she had received for two years.

She felt unwilling, also, to receive further gifts or support from
Ralph. If I were his wife, she said, it might be well, but since it is
not so, I must not be dependent.

Foolish Suzette again! She did not know that men love best where they
most protect. The wife who comes with a dower may climb as high as her
husband's pocket, but seldom lies snugly at his heart. Her changed
conduct did not draw him closer to her. He felt uneasy and unworthy. He
missed the artfulness which had been so winning. He had jealousies no
longer to keep his passion quick, for he could not doubt her devotion.
There was nothing to lack in Suzette, and that was a fault. She had
become modest, docile, truthful, grave. A noble man might have
appreciated her the better. Ralph Flare was a representative man, and he
did not.

His friends in America thought his copy from Rembrandt wonderful. Their
flattery made his ambition glow and flame. His mother, whose woman's
instinct divined the cause of his delay in Paris, sent him a pleading
letter to go southward; and thus reprimanded, praised, rewarded, what
was he to do?

He resolved to leave France--and without Suzette!

He had not courage to tell her that the separation was final. He spoke
of an excursion merely, and took but a handful of baggage