r Louis. For Louis, though she would rather have died than do it for
herself. To save to Louis what was, to his imagination, the one claim
he had upon her respect and the world's. After all, how little was it in
value or in dignity! How little she cared for it! One year of her voice
could earn two such Seigneuries as this. And the honour--save that it
was Pontiac-it was naught to her. In all her life she had never done or
said a dishonourable thing. She had never lied, she had never deceived,
she had never done aught that might not have been written down and
published to all the world. Yet here, all at once, she was faced with
a vast temptation, to do a deed, the penalty of which was an indelible
shame.

What injury would it do to George Fournel! He was used now to his
disappointment; he was rich; he had no claims upon Pontiac; there was no
one but himself to whom it mattered, this little Seigneury. What he
did not know did not exist, so far as himself was concerned. How
easily could it all be made right some day! She felt as though she were
suffocating, and she opened the window a little very softly. Then she
lit the candle tremblingly, watched the flame gather strength, and
opened out the will. As she did so, however, the smell of a clover
field, which is as honey, came stealing through the room, and all at
once a strange association of ideas flashed into her brain.

She recalled one summer day long ago, when, in the church of St.
Saviour's, the smell of the clover fields came through the open doors
and windows, and her mind had kept repeating mechanically, till she
fell asleep, the text of the Curb's sermon--"As ye sow, so also shall ye
reap."

That placid hour which had no problems, no cares, no fears, no penalties
in view, which was filled with the richness of a blessed harvest and the
plenitude of innocent youth, came back on her now in the moment of her
fierce temptation.

She folded up the paper slowly, a sob came in her throat, she blew out
the candle, and put the will back in the cupboard. The faint click of
the spring as she closed the panel seemed terribly loud to her.
She started and looked timorously round. The blood came back to her
face--she flushed crimson with guilt. Then she turned out the lighted
lamp and crept away up the stairs to her room.

She paused beside Louis' bed. He was moving restlessly in his sleep; he
was murmuring her name. With a breaking sigh she crept into bed slowly
and lay li