up him until the strong right arm encircled
him and he was seated triumphantly in the crook of it. Whatever the old man
might have against his son-in-law there was no doubt as to his feeling for
the boy.

"He is gone," he said, with a grave nod, in response to his daughter's
questioning look. "But I misdoubt him. You had much better come with me to
Belfontaine for a time, Rachel."

She shook her head doubtfully.

"He's an angry man, and if he should get back--" said her father.

"In his right mind he would be sorry--"

"I misdoubt him," he said again, with a sombre nod. "I shall have no peace
if you are here all alone...."

But she shook her head dismally, with no sign of yielding.

"It has been very lonely," he said. "You and the boy--"

And she looked up at him, and the hunger of his face seemed to strike her
suddenly. She got up from the fern-bed and said, "Yes, we will come. My
troubles have made me selfish."

"Now, God be praised! You lift a load from my heart, Rachel. You will come
at once? Put together what you will need and we will take it with us."

"And the house?"

"It will be all safe. If you like I will ask George Hamon to give an eye to
it while you are away. Perhaps--" Perhaps she would decide to remain with
him at Belfontaine, but experience had taught him to go one step at a time
rather than risk big leaps when he was not sure of his footing.

So, while she gathered such things as she and the boy would need for a few
days' stay, he strode back down the sunny lane to La Vauroque, to leave
word of his wishes with Hamon's mother.

And Philip Carre's heart was easier than it had been for many a day, as
they wound their way among the great cushions of gorse to his lonely house
at Belfontaine. And the small boy was jumping with joy, and the shadow on
his mother's face was lightened somewhat. For when one's life has broken
down, and untoward circumstances have turned one into a subject for
sympathetic gossip, it is a relief to get away from it all, to dwell for a
time where the clacking of neighbourly tongues cannot be heard, and where
sympathy is all the deeper for finding no expression in words. At
Belfontaine there was little fear of oversight or overhearing, for it lay
somewhat apart, and since his daughter's marriage Philip Carre had lived
there all alone with his dumb man Krok, who assisted him with the farm and
the fishing, and their visitors were few and far between.

Now that jumping s