of her return from Terrebonne,
and she hastened to rejoin her in their snug rooms over the Women's
Exchange. When she snatched Zosephine into her arms and shed tears,
the mother merely wiped and kissed them away, and asked no
explanation.

The two were soon apart. For Marguerite hungered unceasingly for
solitude. Only in solitude could she, or dared she, give herself up to
the constant recapitulation of every minutest incident of the morning.
And that was ample employment. They seemed the happenings of a month
ago. She felt as if it were imperative to fix them in her memory now,
or lose them in confusion and oblivion forever. Over them all again
and again she went, sometimes quickening memory with half-spoken
words, sometimes halting in long reverie at some intense juncture: now
with tingling pleasure at the unveiling of the portrait, the painter's
cautionary revelation of the personal presence above, or Claude's
appearance at the window; now with burnings of self-abasement at the
passionate but ineffectual beseechings of her violin; and always
ending with her face in her hands, as though to hide her face even
from herself for shame that with all her calling--her barefaced, as
it seemed to her, her abject calling--he had not come.

"Marguerite, my child, it is time for bed."

She obeyed. It was all one, the bed or the window. Her mother, weary
with travel, fell asleep; but she--she heard the clock down-stairs
strike, and a clock next door attest, twelve--one--two--three--four,
and another day began to shine in at the window. As it brightened, her
spirits rose. She had been lying long in reverie; now she began once
more the oft-repeated rehearsal. But the new day shone into it also.
When the silent recital again reached its end, the old distress was no
longer there, but in its place was a new, sweet shame near of kin to
joy. The face, unhidden, looked straight into the growing light.
Whatever else had happened, this remained,--that Claude was found. She
silently formed the name on her parted lips--"Claude! Claude! Claude!
Claude!" and could not stop though it gave her pain, the pain was so
sweet. She ceased only when there rose before her again the picture of
him drawing the curtain and disappearing; but even then she remembered
the words, "Don't worry; we'll bring it out all right," and smiled.

When Zosephine, as the first sunbeam struck the window-pane, turned
upon her elbow and looked into the fair face beside he