for as long as he did not think of it, it was safe
there, and she should not feel that terrible anguish that had seemed to
rend body and soul when she saw him lay the violin across his knee to
break it. And Abby came not, and gave no sign; and there was no one
else.

She saw little of the neighbours at first. The women looked rather
askance at her, and thought her little better than a fool, even if she
had contrived to make one of Jacques De Arthenay. She never seemed to
understand their talk, and had a way of looking past them, as if
unaware of their presence, that was disconcerting, when one thought
well of oneself. But Marie was not a fool, only a child; and she did
not look at the women simply because she was not thinking of them.
With the children, however, it was different Marie felt that she would
have a great deal to say to the children, if only she had the half of
her that could talk to them. Ah, how she would speak, with Madame on
her arm! What wonders she could tell them, of fairies and witches, of
flowers that sang and birds that danced! But this other part of her
was shy, and she did not feel that she had anything worth saying to the
little ones, who looked at her with half-frightened, half-inviting eyes
when they passed her door. By-and-by, however, she mustered up
courage, and called one or two of them to her, and gave them flowers
from her little garden. Also a pot of jam with a spoon in it proved an
eloquent argument in favour of friendship; and after a while the
children fell into a way of sauntering past with backward glances, and
were always glad to come in when Marie knocked on the window, or came
smiling to the door, with her handkerchief tied under her chin and her
knitting in her hand. It was only when her husband was away that this
happened; Marie would not for worlds have called a child to meet her
husband's eyes, those blue eyes of which, she stood in such terror,
even when she grew to love them.

One little boy in particular came often, when the first shyness had
worn away. He was an orphan, like Marie herself: a pretty, dark-eyed
little fellow, who looked, she fancied, like the children at home in
France. He did not expect her to talk and answer questions, but was
content to sit, as she loved to do, gazing at the trees or the clouds
that went sailing by, only now and then uttering a few quiet words that
seemed in harmony with the stillness all around. I have said that
Jacques