t he was, his face a medley of fear and spite and shame.

She nodded, but to Claude's astonishment expressed no surprise.
Meanwhile Louis, after dropping first his cloak and then his sack, in
his haste to be gone, shuffled his way to the door. The two looked on,
without moving or speaking, while he opened it, carried out his bag,
and, turning about, closed the door upon himself. They heard his
footsteps move away.

At length Claude spoke. "The rats, I see, are leaving," he muttered.

"Yes, the rats!" she echoed, and carried for a moment her eyes to his.
Then she knelt on the hearth, and uncovering the under side of the log,
where a little fire still smouldered, she fed it with two or three
fir-cones, and, stooping low, blew steadily on them until they caught
fire and blazed. He stood looking down at her, and marvelled at the
strength of mind that allowed her to stoop to trifles, or to think of
fires at such a time as this. He forgot that habit is of all stays the
strongest, and that to women a thousand trifles make up--God reward them
for it--the work of life: a work which instinct moves them to pursue,
though the heavens fall.

Several hours had elapsed since he had entered hotfoot to see her; and
the day was beginning to wane. The flame of the blazing fir-cones, a
hundred times reflected in the rows of pewter plates and the surface of
the old oaken dressers, left the corners of the room in shadow.
Immediately within the windows, indeed, the daylight held its own; but
when she rose and turned to him her back was towards the casement, and
the firelight which lit up her face flickered uncertainly, and left him
in doubt whether she were moved or not.

"You have eaten nothing!" she said, while he stood pondering what she
would say. "And it is four o'clock! I am sorry!" Her tone, which took
shame to herself, gave him a new surprise.

He stopped her as she turned to the dresser. "Your mother is better?" he
said gently.

"She is herself now," she replied, with a slight quaver, and without
looking at him. And she went about her work.

Did she know? Did she understand? In his world was only one fact, in his
mind only one tremendous thought: the fact of their position, the
thought of their isolation and peril. In her treatment of Louis she had
seemed to show knowledge and a comprehension as wide as his own. But if
she knew all, could she be as calm as she was? Could she go about her
daily tasks? Could she cut and lay an