Beverly Stoke belonging to them--it had
been their mother's--they had migrated thither with their fallen
fortunes and little Jean. And then Janet had died. She was delicate and
unaccustomed to privation and discomfort--and the cottage had its
disadvantages. She, Anne herself, was as strong as a horse and had never
been ill in her life, but others were not quite so hardy. "However"--she
smiled--"one has to make the best of things."

"_Parbleu_," said Aristide.

Miss Anne went on to talk of Jean, a miraculous infant of infinite
graces and accomplishments. Up to now he had been the sturdiest and
merriest fellow.

"At nine months old he saw that life was a big joke," said Aristide.
"How he used to laugh."

"There's not much laugh left in him, poor darling," she sighed. And she
told how he had caught a chill which had gone to his lungs and how the
night before last she thought she had lost him.

She sat up and listened. "Will you excuse me for a moment?"

She went out and presently returned, standing at the doorway. "He is
still asleep. Would you like to see him? Only"--she put her fingers on
her lips--"you must be very, very quiet."

He followed her into the next room and looked about him shyly,
recognizing that it was Miss Anne's own bedroom; and there, lying in a
little cot beside the big bed, he saw the sleeping child, his brown face
flushed with fever. He had a curly shock of black hair and well formed
features. An old woolly lamb nose to nose with him shared his pillow.
Aristide drew from his pocket a Teddy bear, and, having asked Miss
Anne's permission with a glance, laid it down gently on the coverlid.

His eyes were wet when they returned to the parlour. So were Miss
Anne's. The Teddy bear was proof of the simplicity of his faith in her.

After a while, conscious of hunger, he rose to take leave. He must be
getting back to St. Albans. But might he be permitted to come back later
in the afternoon? Miss Anne reddened. It outraged her sense of
hospitality to send a guest away from her house on a three-mile walk for
food. And yet----

"Mr. Pujol," she said bravely, "I would ask you to stay to luncheon if I
had anything to offer you. But I am single handed, and, with Jean's
illness, I haven't given much thought to housekeeping. The woman who
does some of the rough work won't be back till six. I hate to let you go
all those miles--I am so distressed----"

"But, mademoiselle," said Aristide. "You have some bre