t he should grow up, to be, in the words of the beautiful old phrase,
"A soldier of Christ!" Of late years she had had many ambitions for her
boys, but they had been ambitions of the world, worldly. The old faith
had been gradually neglected and allowed to sink into the background of
life. In her own strength she had walked, in her own weakness she had
failed. Yet now, in default of punishment, goodness and mercy were once
more to be her portion! All the nobility in Joan's nature rose up as
she pledged herself afresh to a new--a higher life! Jack would live,
their boy would live--that was for days the one thought of which the
parents were conscious. For the father it was perfect joy, but for the
mother there still remained a pang. Only Esmeralda herself ever knew
the anguish of grief which she endured on account of her baby's altered
looks. Little Jack, with his angel face, his halo of curls, his
exquisite, innocent eyes, had been a joy to behold. Waking, sleeping,
merry, sad--at one and every moment, of his life the mere sight of him
had been as an open sesame to the hearts of those who beheld. The knife
turned in his mother's heart at the thought of _Jack_ shorn, scarred,
spectacled. She dared not confide her grief to her husband. He would
not understand. _Looks_! What could looks matter, when the child had
been delivered from death? Joan could see in imagination the expression
on his face, hear the shocked tones of his voice; she would not betray
her feelings and risk a break of the new, sweet understanding between
them. All men were alike. There were occasions when only another woman
could understand.

Joan went upstairs to the empty nursery and found Marie weeping in her
chair.

"_Petite lapin! Petite cherie! Petite ange_! Comfort thyself,
Madame," she sobbed, "we can have glasses like the young American--she
who visited Madame last year. No rims hardly to be observed! And the
hair--that will grow--of a surety it will grow. A little long upon the
forehead, and _voila_! The scar is hid. ... A little care, Madame, a
little patience, and he will be once more our _petit amour_!"

"Marie," said her mistress firmly, "looks are a secondary affair. We
ought to be too thankful to _think_ of looks!"

"_C'est vrai_, Madame," replied Marie demurely, "_C'est vrai_," and Joan
Hilliard went back to her room with a lightened heart, and determined to
write at once to town to ask particulars concerning