py, and irritated Clerambault. He knew the cause well
enough, but his pride refused to admit it; though little by little he
was not far from confessing that Rosine was right. He was ready to
humiliate himself, but his tongue was tied by false shame; and so the
difference between their minds grew wider, while in their hearts each
longed to yield.

In the confusion that followed Maxime's death, this inward prayer
pressed more on the one less able to resist. Clerambault was
prostrated by his grief, his wife aimlessly busy, and Rosine was out
all day at her war work. They only came together at meals. But it
happened that one evening after dinner Clerambault heard her mother
violently scolding Rosine, who had spoken of wounded enemies whom she
wanted to take care of. Madame Clerambault was as indignant as if
her daughter had committed a crime, and appealed to her husband. His
weary, vague, sad eyes had begun to see; he looked at Rosine who was
silent, her head bent, waiting for his reply.

"You are right, my little girl," he said.

Rosine started and flushed, for she had not expected this; she raised
her grateful eyes to his, and their look seemed to say: "You have come
back to me at last."

After the brief repast they usually separated; each to eat out his
heart in solitude. Clerambault sat before his writing-table and wept,
his face hidden in his hands. Rosine's look had pierced through to his
suffering heart; his soul lost, stifled for so long, had come to be as
it was before the war. Oh, the look in her eyes!...

He listened, wiping away his tears; his wife had locked herself into
Maxime's room as she did every evening, and was folding and unfolding
his clothes, arranging the things left behind.... He went into the
room where Rosine sat alone by the window, sewing. She was absorbed in
thought, and did not hear him coming till he stood before her; till he
laid his grey head on her shoulder and murmured: "My little girl."

Then her heart melted also. She took the dear old head between her
hands, with its rough hair, and answered:

"My dear father."

Neither needed to ask or to explain why he was there. After a long
silence, when he was calmer, he looked at her and said:

"It seems as if I had waked up from a frightful dream." ... But she
merely stroked his hair, without speaking.

"You were watching over me, were you not?... I saw it.... Were you
unhappy?" ...

She just bowed her head not daring to look at hi