ce a prison, or any hard names you
please--yet it is destined to be Isobel's home. Not only that, but it is
her only chance. I am putting you on your guard, you see, but I do not
think that it matters. You are fighting against hopeless odds, and if by
any chance you should succeed, your success would be the most terrible
thing which could happen to Isobel."

I walked by her side for a moment in silence. There was in her words and
tone some underlying note of fear, some suggestion of hidden danger,
which brought back to my mind at once the farewell speech of Madame
Richard. There was something ominous, too, in her presence here.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, as lightly as possible, "you have told me a
great deal, and less than nothing at all. Yet I gather that you know
more about the child and her history than you have led me to suppose."

"Yes," she admitted, "that is perhaps true."

"Why not let me share your knowledge?" I suggested boldly.

"You carry candour," she remarked, smiling, "to absurdity. We are on
opposite sides. Ah, how delicious this is!"

We were regaining the centre of the little town by a footpath which for
some distance had followed the river, and now, turning almost at right
angles, skirted a cherry orchard in late blossom. The perfume of the
pink and white buds, swaying slightly in the breeze, came to us both--a
waft of delicate and poignant freshness. Lady Delahaye stood still, and
half closed her eyes.

"How perfectly delicious," she murmured. "Arn--Mr. Greatson, do get me
just the tiniest piece. I can't quite reach."

I broke off a small branch, and she thrust it into the bosom of her
dress. The orchard was gay with bees and a few early butterflies, blue
and white and orange coloured. In the porch of a red-tiled cottage a few
yards away a girl was singing. Suddenly I stopped and pointed.

"Look!"

An avenue with a gate at the end led through the orchard, and under the
drooping boughs we caught a glimpse of the convent away on the hillside.
Greyer and more stern than ever it seemed through the delicate framework
of soft green foliage and blossoms.

"Lady Delahaye," I said, "you are yourself a young woman. Could you bear
to think of banishing from your life for ever all the colour and the
sweet places, all the joy of living? Would you be content to build for
yourself a tomb, to commit yourself to a living death?"

She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.

"There is all the differen