the rock.

"You are not dead? Lisa----"

"Dead? Poor lady!" catching her in her arms. "Some water, George! It
is her head. She has been too much alone."

When Frances opened her eyes she was lying on the grass, her children
kneeling beside her. She caught Lisa's arm in both hands and felt it:
then she sat up.

"I must tell you what I did--before you speak to me."

"Not now," said Lisa. "You are not well. I am going to be your nurse.
The baby has made me a very good nurse," and she stooped again over
Frances, with kind, smiling eyes.

Selo came to wile George up to the mysterious cave, but Lisa
impatiently hurried them to the beach. "Caves and serpent worshippers
truly!" she cried. "Why, she has not seen Jacques!" and when, in the
boat, George, who was greatly alarmed, tried to rouse his mother from
her silent stupor, Lisa said gayly, "She will be herself again as soon
as she sees HIM."

When they reached Larmor Baden, she despatched George in search of
Colette and the child, and she went into the church. It was late, and
the village women sat on the steps gossipping in the slanting sunlight.
There is nothing in their lives but work and the church; and when, each
day, they have finished with one they go to the other.

Frances followed her. The sombre little church was vacant. She
touched Lisa on the shoulder.

"There is something I must tell you," she said. "You would not let me
touch the child, if you knew it."

She stooped and spoke a few sentences in a vehement whisper, and then
leaned back, exhausted, against the wall.

Lisa drew back. Her lips were white with sudden fright, but she
scanned Mrs. Waldeaux's face keenly.

"You were in Vannes last night? You tried---- My God, I remember!
The tisane tasted queerly, and I threw it out." She walked away for a
moment, and then turning, said, "You called my mother a vile woman
once. But SHE would not have done that thing!

"No," said Frances, not raising her head. "No."

Lisa stood looking at her as she crouched against the wall. The fierce
scorn slowly died out of her eyes. She was a coarse, but a
good-natured, woman. An awful presence, too, walked with her always
now, step by step, and in that dread shadow she saw the things of life
more justly than we do. She took Frances by the hand at last. "You
were not quite yourself, I think," she said quietly. "I have pushed
you too hard. George has told me so much about you! If we cou