ly. "It does not seem strange that a mother
should work for her son," she said slowly. "But she has never told us!
That is fine! I like that! I told you she had very good traits."

George stared at her. "But--me! Don't you see what a cad I am?"

He paced up and down, muttering, and then throwing on his hat went out
into the night to be alone.

Lisa sank back again and watched Jacques. At military school, yes; and
after he had left school he would be a soldier, perhaps. Such a
gallant young fellow!

She leaned over the cradle, holding out her hands. Ah, God! if she
could but live to see it! Surely it might be? There was no pain now.
Doctors were not infallible--even D'Abri might be mistaken, after all.

George, coming in an hour later, found her sitting with her hands
covering her face.

"Are you asleep, Lisa?"

"No."

"There is a telegram from Clara. My mother has left Munich for Vannes.
She will be here in two days."

She rose with an effort. "I am glad for you, George."

"You are ill, Lisa!"

"A little tired, only. Colette will give me my powder, and I shall be
quite well in the morning. Will you send her to me now?"

After George was gone the rumbling of a diligence was heard in the
courtyard, and presently a woman was brought up to the opposite chamber.

The hall was dark. Looking across it, Frances Waldeaux saw in the
lighted room Lisa and her child.

CHAPTER XIV

Before we come to the dark story of that night in the inn, it is but
fair to Frances to say that she came there with no definite evil
purpose. She had been cheerful on her journey from Munich. There was
one clear fact in her brain: She was on her way to George.

The countless toy farms of southern France, trimmed neatly by the inch,
swept past her. In Brittany came melancholy stretches of brown heath
and rain-beaten hills; or great affluent estates, the Manor houses
covered with thatch, stagnant pools close to the doors, the cattle
breaking through the slovenly wattled walls.

Frances, being a farmer, felt a vague amusement at these things, but
they were all dim to her as a faded landscape hanging on the wall.

She was going to George.

Sometimes she seemed to be in Lucy's room again, with the sweet, clean
air of youth about her. All of that purity and love might have gone
into George's life--before it fell into the slough.

But she was going now to take it out of the slough.

There was a merchant and h