d now walk alone, would slip from
her mother's arms to run to her friend. Risler would hear the little,
hurrying steps. He would feel the light breath behind him, and instantly
he would be conscious of a soothing, rejuvenating influence. She would
throw her plump little arms around his neck with affectionate warmth,
with her artless, causeless laugh, and a kiss from that little mouth
which never had lied. Claire Fromont, standing in the doorway, would
smile as she looked at them.

"Risler, my friend," she would say, "you must come down into the garden
a while,--you work too hard. You will be ill."

"No, no, Madame,--on the contrary, work is what saves me. It keeps me
from thinking."

Then, after a long pause, she would continue:

"Come, my dear Risler, you must try to forget."

Risler would shake his head.

"Forget? Is that possible? There are some things beyond one's strength.
A man may forgive, but he never forgets."

The child almost always succeeded in dragging him down to the garden.
He must play ball, or in the sand, with her; but her playfellow's
awkwardness and lack of enthusiasm soon impressed the little girl. Then
she would become very sedate, contenting herself with walking gravely
between the hedges of box, with her hand in her friend's. After a moment
Risler would entirely forget that she was there; but, although he did
not realize it, the warmth of that little hand in his had a magnetic,
softening effect upon his diseased mind.

A man may forgive, but he never forgets!

Poor Claire herself knew something about it; for she had never
forgotten, notwithstanding her great courage and the conception she
had formed of her duty. To her, as to Risler; her surroundings were a
constant reminder of her sufferings. The objects amid which she lived
pitilessly reopened the wound that was ready to close. The staircase,
the garden, the courtyard, all those dumb witnesses of her husband's
sin, assumed on certain days an implacable expression. Even the careful
precaution her husband took to spare her painful reminders, the way in
which he called attention to the fact that he no longer went out in the
evening, and took pains to tell her where he had been during the
day, served only to remind her the more forcibly of his wrong-doing.
Sometimes she longed to ask him to forbear,--to say to him: "Do not
protest too much." Faith was shattered within her, and the horrible
agony of the priest who doubts, and seeks at the