back by the time mademoiselle
and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in
quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put
on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her
returning like that!

And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was
not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for
mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could
run much faster without them, and--the tears came with a rush to her
eyes--they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and
stockings. It--it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that
was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now.

She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do
that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all!
Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was
gone, and she was alone and only the _bon Dieu_ to see, then perhaps
the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very
bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what
happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the
parting.

She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things
much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a
fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this
greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it
had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of,
changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget
everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done
that--but this thing must be first before either of their loves.
Afterwards, perhaps, it might kill his love--afterwards, yes,
afterwards it might do that. She tried to smile a little. It was what
she was going now to bring about--afterwards it _must_ kill his love.
It was the only way. And that would come surely, very surely--his
giving away of the beacon, so lightly forgetting what he told her it
had meant, taught her that. If he went now, if she bade him go now, it
was not for a little time--it was for always.

She was running, very fast, breathlessly--as though she were trying to
outrun her thoughts. It was coming again, the same bitter fight that
she had fought out through the darkness, through all those long hours
alone--but s