ise for her years--almost too wise.
What had happened? She had probably felt sorrow for Laforce at first,
and afterwards had shown active sympathy, and at last--no, he felt that
she had not quite forgiven him, that, whatever was, she had not hidden
the criminal in her heart. But why did she sing that song? Her heart
was pleading for him--for the criminal. Had she and her mother gone to
Winnipeg to be near Laforce, to comfort him? Was Laforce free now, and
was she unwilling? It was so strange that she should thus have carried
on her childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed her--she had
imagination.

"His mother died in my arms in Winnipeg," she said abruptly at last.
"I'm glad I was some comfort to her. You see, it all came through me--I
was so young and spoiled and silly--John Marcey's death, her death, and
his long years in prison. Even then I knew better than to set the one
against the other. Must a child not be responsible? I was--I am!"

"And so you punish yourself?"

"It was terrible for me--even as a child. I said that I could never
forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came
something else."

"You saw him, there amie?"

"I saw him--so changed, so quiet, so much older--all grey at the
temples. At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of
the thing--to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn--" She
paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre.

"It is safe; I am silent," he said.

"That I might learn to bear--him," she continued.

"Is he still--" Pierre paused.

She spoke up quickly. "Oh no, he has been free two years."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know." She waited for a minute, then said again, "I don't know.
When he was free, he came to me, but I--I could not. He thought, too,
that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn't--be his wife. He
didn't think enough of himself, he didn't urge anything. And I wasn't
ready--no--no--no--how could I be! I didn't care so much about the gaol,
but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol--what was that to me! There
was no real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been
wicked--not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think--the
difference--if he had been a thief!"

Pierre nodded. "Then some one should have killed him!" he said. "Well,
after?"

"After--after--ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; but no, I
was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey's body
to