mind's eye for him to gaze
upon, leaving him to tremble with emotion at the thought that he should
give it to the world to see.

It was a secret yet from Marie-Louise--a secret that was to be told
to-night. There were to be just they two--and--yes, Father Anton, who
would be there to bless them--to know. No one else, least of all
Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss, who would in that case come hurrying
back from America. No one else to know that he lived until the dream
statue was done. There was the dream statue to make, and then all
France, and all the world, if it would, should know that Jean Laparde
still lived; for then the world would understand why the Jean Laparde
it knew--had died.

He filled his barrow, emptied it, and filled it again--and worked
on--and, strangest sound of all, strange indeed for that dark, joyless
place, as he worked, he sang.

Came at last, faintly, the four double strokes of the ship's bell.
Eight bells--four o'clock in the morning--the watch was ended. Jean
handed his barrow and shovel to his relief, and, mounting the
succession of steep, iron-runged perpendicular ladders, climbed upward
from the ship's black depths, and made his way to the steerage deck.

It was dark here--with the darkness before the dawn. A fresh wind was
blowing, and he put on his jacket; and, leaning over the side, watched
the racing waves, and laughed at the buoyant lift of the deck beneath
his feet, and threw back his head to drink into his lungs for the first
time in many hours the sweet, fresh, God-given air.

"Marie-Louise! To-day--Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" his heart was
saying.

And presently she came along the deck, and her hand stole into his. It
was too dark to see her face; but her hair, truant in the wind, swept
his cheek, and close to him he could feel her heart beat against his
own. And as he held her there, there came upon him, softly, like some
sacred presence, moving the soul of him with an holy joy, the wonder of
her, and the great, immeasurable, priceless worth of the love she had
given him.

"Marie-Louise," he whispered tenderly. "Your lips, _ma bien-aimee_!"

And in the darkness she raised her face to his, and he kissed her--and
suddenly he found his eyes were wet. Glad tears they were; and yet,
too, a pledge between himself and God that he would hold her always as
he held her now, her life and happiness his dearest trust--a pledge
that in itself asked grace and pardon in con