just above the other paillasse the vague outline of a dark crucifix.

It seemed a terrible effort to co-ordinate all these things, and to
try and realize what the room was, and what was the meaning of the
paillasse, the narrow window and the stained walls, too much altogether
for the aching head to take in save very slowly, very gradually.

Marguerite was content to wait and to let memory creep back as
reluctantly as it would.

"Do you think, my child, you could drink a little of this now?"

It was a gentle, rather tremulous voice which struck upon her ear.
She opened her eyes, and noticed that the dark something which had
previously been on the opposite paillasse was no longer there, and
that there appeared to be a presence close to her only vaguely defined,
someone kindly and tender who had spoken to her in French, with that
soft sing-song accent peculiar to the Normandy peasants, and who now
seemed to be pressing something cool and soothing to her lips.

"They gave me this for you!" continued the tremulous voice close to her
ear. "I think it would do you good, if you tried to take it."

A hand and arm was thrust underneath the rough pillow, causing her to
raise her head a little. A glass was held to her lips and she drank.

The hand that held the glass was all wrinkled, brown and dry, and
trembled slightly, but the arm which supported her head was firm and
very kind.

"There! I am sure you feel better now. Close your eyes and try to go to
sleep."

She did as she was bid, and was ready enough to close her eyes. It
seemed to her presently as if something had been interposed between her
aching head and that trying ray of white September sun.

Perhaps she slept peacefully for a little while after that, for though
her head was still very painful, her mouth and throat felt less parched
and dry. Through this sleep or semblance of sleep, she was conscious of
the same pleasant voice softly droning Paters and Aves close to her ear.

Thus she lay, during the greater part of the day. Not quite fully
conscious, not quite awake to the awful memories which anon would crowd
upon her thick and fast.

From time to time the same kind and trembling hands would with gentle
pressure force a little liquid food through her unwilling lips: some
warm soup, or anon a glass of milk. Beyond the pain in her head, she
was conscious of no physical ill; she felt at perfect peace, and an
extraordinary sense of quiet and repose seemed to