man--" said Leblanc, turning away. They
were all watching him, except Perine, who was sobbing stormily on the
wooden stool, and he said shortly, "There is something more in my
note-book."

"More!" repeated Jean with alarm.

"Would you rather not have it?"

Marie, who had not taken her eyes from him, advanced with her hands
pressed upon her heart.

"Courage, my friend," she said breathlessly. "Yes, _M. le
Commissaire_, we will hear."

It had struck her that he was smiling.

He began to read in his sing-song voice, "Fort, convicted of forgery,
died last month in the Grande Roquette. Before his death he confessed
his denunciation of Jean Didier to have been false."

Jean Didier's wife turned round, opened her arms and fell upon her
husband's neck, speechless.

* * * * *

So this was the end of that affair. As for No. 7639, which had brought
Leblanc in pursuit of Perine, it did not turn out so romantically as
might have been desired, having nothing to do with the great robbery of
the Rue Vivienne, which remains a mystery--to most people--to this day.
But oddly enough, it set the police on the track of a smaller crime; a
certain reward was handed over to the Didiers for the use of the poor
girl, and no one will deny that it was her unconscious instrumentality
which brought their change of fortune. Jean is almost always kind to
her, but Marie treats her with a sort of reverence.

You may see them sometimes, of a summer evening, walking along the
quays. The great river sweeps slowly down, the busy lights which flit
about the houses or point the span of the bridges with golden dots,
fling long reflections on its surface. Overhead, more peaceful lights
are shining. All about us is the rush of tumult and change, men drifting
here and there, struggling, weeping, jesting, passing away; but over all
God watches, and His world goes on.

FRANCES MARY PEARD

GONERIL

A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER 1.

THE TWO OLD LADIES.

On one of the pleasant hills round Florence, a little beyond Camerata,
there stands a house, so small that an Englishman would probably take it
for a lodge of the great villa behind, whose garden trees at sunset cast
their shadow over the cottage and its terrace on to the steep white
road. But any of the country people could tell him that this, too, is
Casa Signorile, spite of its smallness. It stands somewhat high above
the road, a square, wh