oward him.

He had her in his arms, against his heart, and the glad tears sprang
to my eyes as I looked at them. I glanced at the elder woman, and saw
that her eyes were shining and her lips quivering.

"And I have come to take you away, my love," he was saying.

"Oh, yes; take me away," she sobbed, "before the other comes."

She stopped, her eyes on the window-seat, where "the other" lay, and
the color died out of her cheeks again.

"He, at least, has paid the penalty," said Royce. "He can trouble you
no more, my love."

She was sobbing helplessly upon his shoulder, but as the moments
passed she grew more calm, and at last stood upright from him. The
younger woman had come back into the room, and was watching her
curiously, with no trace of emotion.

"Come, let us go," said the girl. "We must take the first boat home."

But Royce held back.

"There has been a crime committed," he said slowly. "We must see that
it is punished."

"A crime? Oh, yes; but I forgive them, dear."

"The crime against yourself you may forgive; but there was another
crime--murder----"

"There was no murder!" burst in Cecile Alix. "I swear it to you,
monsieur. Do you understand? There was no murder!"

I saw Miss Holladay wince at the other's voice, and Royce saw it, too.

"I must get her to the inn," he said. "This is more than she can
bear--I fear she will break down utterly. Do you stay and get the
story, Lester. Then we'll decide what it is best to do."

He led her away, out of the house and down the path, not once looking
back. I watched them till the trees hid them, and then turned to the
women.

"Now," I said, "I shall be happy to hear the story."

"It was that man yonder who was the cause of it all," began the
mother, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to keep them still.
"Four years ago he came from Paris here to spend the summer--he was
ver' ill--his heart. We had been living happily, my daughter and I,
but for the one anxiety of her not marrying. He met her and proposed
marriage. He was ver' good--he asked no dowry, and, besides, my
daughter was twenty-five years old--past her first youth. But she
attracted him, and they were married. He took her back to Paris, where
he had a little theater, a hall of the dance--but he grew worse again,
and came back here. It was then that he found out that I had another
daughter, whom I had given to a rich American. I was ver' poor,
monsieur," she added piteously. "My man had d