ssion of fathers?"--I wanted to know.

My master pointed out that the count was a very well favored and
youthful looking man. His marriage to Madame de Ferrier became even more
distasteful. She and her poppet were complete by themselves. Wedding her
to any one was casting indignity upon her.

Annabel de Chaumont was a countess and Madame de Ferrier was a marquise.
These names, I understood, meant that they were ladies to be served and
protected. De Chaumont's daughter was served and protected, and as far
as he was allowed to do so, he served and protected the daughter of his
fellow countryman.

"But the pride of emigres," Doctor Chantry said, "was an old story in
the De Chaumont household. There were some Saint-Michels who lived in a
cabin, strictly on their own means, refusing the count's help, yet they
had followed him to Le Rayville in Castorland. Madame de Ferrier lived
where her husband had placed her, in a wing of De Chaumont's house,
refusing to be waited on by anybody but Ernestine, paying what her
keeping cost; when she was a welcome guest."

My master hobbled to see her. And I began to think about her day and
night, as I had thought about my books; an isolated little girl in her
early teens, mother and widow, facing a future like a dead wall, with
daily narrowing fortunes. The seclusion in which she lived made her
sacred like a religious person. I did not know what love was, and I
never intended to dote, like my poor master. Before the end of January,
however, such a change worked in me that I was as fierce for the vital
world as I had been for the world of books.

VII

A trick of the eyes, a sweet turning of the mouth corners, the very
color of the hair--some irresistible physical trait, may compel a
preference in us that we cannot control; especially when we first notice
these traits in a woman. My crying need grew to be the presence of
Madame de Ferrier. It was youth calling to youth in that gorgeous winter
desert.

Her windows were hoar-frost furred without and curtained within. Though
I knew where they were I got nothing by tramping past and glancing up. I
used to saunter through the corridor that led to her rooms, startled yet
pleased if Ernestine came out on an errand. Then I would close my book
and nod, and she would courtesy.

"Oh, by the way," I would turn to remark, "I was passing, and thought I
would knock and ask how Madame de Ferrier is to-day. But you can tell
me."

When assu