the room.

"But it is not the gas. I--"

"Pardon, madame; but it is the gas. Madame said, 'Jules, put out the
gas every night when the bell rings.' Madame told me that only last
night. The bell rings: I put out the gas."

"Will you be silent? Will you listen?"

"If madame wishes; just as madame says."

But the old lady had turned to Mr. Horace. "Horace, you have seen--you
know--" and it was a question now of overcoming emotion. "I--I--I--a
carriage, my friend, a carriage."

"Madame--" Jules interrupted his smile to interrupt her.

She was walking around the room, picking up a shawl here, a lace
there; for she was always prepared against draughts.

"Madame--" continued Jules, pursuing her.

"A carriage."

"If madame would only listen, I was going to say--but madame is too
quick in her disposition--the carriage has been waiting since a long
hour ago. Mr. Horace said to have it there in a half hour."

It was then she saw for the first time that it had all been prepared
by Mr. Horace. The rest was easy enough: getting into the carriage,
and finding the place of which Mr. Horace had heard, as he said, only
that afternoon. In it, on her bed of illness, poverty, and suffering,
lay the patient, wasted form of the beautiful fair one whom men had
called in her youth Myosotis.

But she did not call her Myosotis.

"_Mon Amour!_" The old pet name, although it had to be fetched across
more than half a century of disuse, flashed like lightning from
madame's heart into the dim chamber.

"_Ma Divine!_" came in counter-flash from the curtained bed.

In the old days women, or at least young girls, could hazard such pet
names one upon the other. These--think of it!--dated from the first
communion class, the dating period of so much of friendship.

"My poor Amour!"

"My poor, poor Divine!"

The voices were together, close beside the pillow.

"I--I--" began Divine.

"It could not have happened if God had not wished it," interrupted
poor Amour, with the resignation that comes, alas! only with the last
drop of the bitter cup.

And that was about all. If Mr. Horace had not slipped away, he might
have noticed the curious absence of monsieur's name, and of his own
name, in the murmuring that followed. It would have given him some
more ideas on the subject of woman.

At any rate, the good God must thank him for having one affair the
less to arrange when the trumpet sounds out there over the old St.
Louis cemetery. And