The Wished-for Child

SHE made a place for me beside her on the moss.

’You see it will comfort me to talk it over. I have never talked of it with Marie. But if the good God takes me first, I should like her to know. You will tell her. She will let you know, even if you are far away, that I am gone; and then, you will either come and tell her, or you will write her.

’I need not begin at the beginning; you know — for Marie will have told you — that once I was as straight and tall as Marie — even a little taller; would you think it? Then there came the accident. After that, not only my body was bent, but my dreams also.’

She turned her misshapen shoulders a little toward me.

’You see, up to that time I had dreams of being a mother. I do not mean that I was promised in marriage. But there was one who had loved me a little and whom I loved. Some day I would have been his wife, — it must have been so; and some day I would be the mother of children. Well, after the accident, he went away to Paris. They tell me he became a great man in the milk trade there. There was never any more thought of marriage; and when I dreamed of children, it was of the children I could never have. One does not talk of suffering like that; it goes into the days somehow. And then, by-and-by, it passes into that strange thing that belongs to all of us — Hope.

’God is a great Rich Man, mademoiselle, there is no disputing that; and we are his children; and we each believe, secretly, that for us there is an inheritance, the inheritance of happiness, could we but find it. For, sometimes, it is buried away like treasure; but it is there for us, could we but find it. And it is the hope of this that keeps us alive. Not bread and bodily comforts. Bread and fire are but symbols. So I sought and hoped and wondered where now, — now that I might never have children of my own, — where now the treasure of my happiness was to be found.

’Just then, Marie, who was young and tall, had a lover, Jean Marie; a man not of her station — quite above her. She had always hands and a face and a little quiet air to attract the wellborn. Jean Marie was the son of a rich carriage-maker. He was a student in the college at St. Genevieve, and he lived with his old uncle on the road to Bragin, the road that runs from St. Genevieve past our house. He always stopped to have a word with her at twilight, when he came by on his way home, with his books. She spoke to me none at all about him; but one needs not to be told such things. At this time I never touched her hand after twilight that her fingers were not cold.

’When his studies were over and he, with the rest of the students, was to get his diploma, she dressed herself in her white dress. I had helped her to make it. We began making it at the time of the apple-blossoms, and neither of us said why we made it, though we both knew. And I tied about her waist a blue ribbon I had that had belonged to our mother. She went not like the rest, by the road, but a way all her own across the fields, to watch him go by in the long procession of students. She told me, a long time afterward, that by-and-by he came and spoke to her and held her two hands in gladness for a moment, while the rich and welldressed ladies looked on; and that he laughed and was gay and sunny; and that he gave her a spray of pink larkspur. His mother had brought him a big bunch of it for his graduation, as though he had been a girl.

’That evening he came to the gate to tell her that he was going away to Paris, to study more; to be an apothecary. And then, he kissed her. I saw it myself; I could not help it. He said nothing to her about coming back; but I never doubted that he would. Marie was beautiful. In the white dress, with my mother’s blue ribbon about her waist, and the pink larkspur in her hair, she was already a bride, a man’s wife, the mother of a man’s children, — any man who had eyes to see. So I never doubted.

’Well, I had found the way to my treasure at last, and to the happiness I longed for. “Marie and he will marry,” I said. “They will have children. It is there that I shall find happiness. I shall feel the arms of those children about my neck. It is I who shall help them, guide them, teach them, rear them, — I who am wiser, wiser than Marie. Marie is too yielding, too gentle. She has always been so. She herself is dependent on me. One child, perhaps, will need me, one at least, more than the rest. So you see I planned for a child, oh, definitely planned for it! — And I began to borrow books from the library of old Philippe — for I said, “If I read, Jean Marie will have more respect for me, — he who is learned. Marie’s beauty will satisfy him; but he will only weary of having me about unless I am clever and can be of help.” So I studied a little of what an apothecary would study; and I studied the poets. “The poets,” I said, “give dignity to the mind. The child will lean on me more if I know some poetry.”

’If, at any time, doubt came to me, I had only to remember that Marie, from I do not know where, had procured some seed of the larkspur, that following spring; and great clumps of it grew by the little kitchen path, after that. That was proof enough. We both pretended that it had no meaning, whereas to both of us, — well, such silences are but courtesies between sisters who love each other.

’So I knitted a pair of white silk stockings for her, and made her a set of underwear from linen; only a little at a time.

’It was not until two years after, that she spoke of this. Her face had grown more slender and had a beauty that reminded you of ten o’clock in the little church. You know how the light shines then, back of the altar, pale and waiting and sad. It was not until then that she asked me what I was doing.

'"I am knitting stockings for you, Marie,” I said, “for when you are a bride.”

'"I think it is of no use,” she said; “I think he will not come back.”

’But we waited, she and I, for him to come. Eight years. Have you ever waited eight years for anything? At the end of the eight years Marie was not the same. She was beautiful, but with the beauty that loss and longing and waiting carve out. I knew she might have reconciled herself at last to giving up Jean Marie, — though there was no other to take his place, — but I knew that she, too, had dreamed of having little children; and that is a longing that one cannot relinquish.

’I was not far wrong. One spring night, when the lilacs were in bloom, and she and I sat in the little stone doorway, she raised her arms a moment, — a gesture of despair, — then dropped them straight and heavy in her lap and clasped her hands.

'"Zephine, Zephine! I am tall and I am a woman — but God has not given it to me to be the mother of a child.”

'"And I am bent and a woman,” I answered quickly, and perhaps harshly, “and He has not given it to me either, nor will.”

’At that she was all penitence and chided herself. But I soothed her. “It is not your hand that can hurt me, little sister,” I said; “it is the hand of God that has been heavy on me. And for eight years I, too, have waited for your happiness to come to you, not just for your sake, but for my own. For is not my happiness all bound up in yours? Have I not dreamed — oh, more than you, I think — of loving your children? I had meant that you should bear me one, one more mine than the rest, and you should give it to me who can bear none of my own.”

'"And, oh, they should have been yours, all,” she said, very still and white, “and one in particular. If God had given me that joy it would have been great enough, full great enough for two.”

’So we sat a long while, mademoiselle. We were two women, without so much as the hope of a child. 1t was not our custom to talk together. We are silent by nature.

’I did not go to bed at once. I went instead into the garden to the little arbor near the gate. From there I could see her moving about upstairs in her little room with the low ceiling. Then very soon she put out the light. After that she sat by the window. I do not know how long she remained there.

’But Jean Marie never came, mademoiselle. Life is like that. You may wait all day with your face turned down a dusty road, and all the while the horseman is riding only farther away. While she prayed so hard, perhaps he was strolling down one of the streets of Paris, singing a little tune, as I think men do; or maybe stopping to pat a dog. And did he guess all the while that he carried Marie’s heart in his hand, and that in turning his face down that street instead of up the dusty road to Bragin, he was taking all motherhood away from her?

’No, mademoiselle. Life is like that. I knew the road to Marie’s life well and I knew none would pass her way. Since Jean Marie had turned his face to Paris not one had come past; not one who had stopped. Yet I prayed that night as I sat in the little arbor, — and as I saw her sitting in the dark window, — I prayed God to send her motherhood.

’I do not remember how long I prayed. I remember, though, the odor of the lilacs and then, in the midst of my praying, I remember hearing horses’ hoofs on the road. I waited for them to go past as all things else did, but they stopped. Then I heard the clank of a sword and spurs and a few words; I saw the light of a small lantern. Then I saw two men dismount; they were in uniform. One of them swung back the gate and almost brushed against me.

'"What have we here!” He held up his lantern and looked at me. “We want lodging and are of no mind to go farther. Will you give us a bed, my sister?”

’I suppose I looked frightened. I think I was.

‘“If your horses can go no farther, you shall not go without a bed,” I said.

‘The face of the other soldier, more tired and eager, appeared now over the shoulder of the first.

'"My friend’s horse here has gone lame. We are sick of hunger. You will take us in? Besides the gold we can give, God finds ways to reward. You will take us in?”

’Only it was hardly a question, more like an agreement.

’We stood a moment, the three of us, in a little circle of light made by the lantern. I led the way. They followed, the big horses coming in singly, through the little gate, one limping badly.

’They followed me around the path. Once, as the lame horse stopped, one of the soldiers gave him a cut, and he threw his head in the air and swerved, tramping on the larkspur.

'"Have a care!” I said. “Be more gentle. Those arc flowers that you crush.”

’For this speech the horse got another cut that brought him back in the middle of the path.

'"There is the stable,” I said; “make your horses comfortable and come back, and you shall have food and a bed.”

’I watched them go around the house. Then I entered and hurried up to Marie’s room. She was standing facing the door in her nightdress, looking like the Virgin, and expecting me.

'"They are two soldiers,” I said, “who ask a bed and food; the horse of one of them is lame.”

She began putting on her clothes, and binding up her hair. In a few moments the men were back again. I set them chairs in the kitchen and laid the table. I had a cheese and some plum comfits, and plenty of bread. There was a yellow pitcher for milk. When Marie entered, both men looked at her; she just nodded to them once, and took up the pitcher and carried it to the shed to fill it. When she brought it back I had the supper nearly ready. One of the men got up and dragged his chair after him to the table, but the other one, the more tired, the more deliberate, still sat, his eyes openly watching Marie.

'"Come, you of the hungry face,” the other called out to him; and then he came, too, and they both scraped their chairs, and shuffled their feet about under the table, and served themselves, and bent down with their mouths to their plates, like hungry men, neither of them looking up once, — save the hungry-faced one, when Marie refilled his milk cup for him. Then he straightened back, and kept his hand on the mug, and looked at her, a long, bold look.

’I went to fix a bed in the lower chamber. When I returned, the hungry-faced one had his arm over the back of the chair, like a satisfied man, and was eating no more, but talking to Marie. I do not know what about.

’I led the way with my candle. As the two followed me Marie shrank a little against the door, to let them pass by, and the hungry-faced one bowed to her as he went past, and paused, oh, the fraction of a little moment close to her, and his uniform touched her skirt; then he glanced at me who held the door open, an indifferent glance, and went on.

’They liked the little room well enough, — it is pretty and white, — and the gayer of the two fell to pulling off his boots at once.

'"God make a good bargain of this for you, sister,” he said, cheerfully. “The bon Dieu is a good one to lend to. I do not doubt He will pay you with usury.”

’So I left them, and Marie and I cleared away the supper, and went to bed. The talk we had had before they came—only an hour before — seemed a very long time gone. I could not go to sleep at first. It was like a great adventure,— oh, a great adventure, I assure you, in the little quiet house; the two tired men sleeping below. I could hear them snore as I lay in my bed. I make no doubt Marie lay awake too, thinking of Jean Marie, and perhaps still praying for him to return.

’The rest that I have to tell you is a thing difficult to tell. The soldiers went on their way in the morning, but it was not the last time that we saw them. The hungry-faced one, at least, came again. He was in command of some road-menders who were rebuilding, about three miles away, a bridge and a part of the road to Paris, where the rains had harmed it. He came again and still again. He had a way of twirling a little string in his fingers. It was not lovable, but you watched it; and other little ways that you remarked and remembered and wondered over; and something masterful, though I cannot remember where it lay, nor what it was.

’I always made him welcome. If in time he could take the place of the one who was gone! I thought of it, and thought if it. Once I made bold to mention this to Marie, and she looked at me thin, and thoughtful.

'"You do not know,’ she said; “Jean Marie is as diamond, this one is as jade. Jean Marie is as gold, this one is as iron.”

'"But, Marie, if you could love him. You and I have need of more than each other. What will it be for us to grow old together. We have need of some one else. Besides, you have need of motherhood. It is the lot of woman. We have both need of a child.”

'"You do not know,” she said again, quietly and sadly. “That kind has no wish to marry any woman. Jean Marie went away; and, not loving me enough, he will not come back; but this one will keep coming again, and again, and again.”

'”Eh bien?” I said, a little impatient of her quietness.

'"Until ” — she shrank and turned away her face a little. — “He will some day make his wish plain. He is a hungry-faced man.”

’At that, my brain seemed to spin; and my thoughts were like fire. That night it seems as though I must have prayed nearly all the night. I made no bones of it. I prayed frank and direct — for God knew my thoughts at any rate — I prayed frank and direct that even without wedlock, He would put a little child in our lives. We needed it; needed it; I told God that.

’One day when it was time for the soldier to come again, it chanced to be time also for me to borrow the butcher’s donkey — as I always did at a certain season — and the little cart, to go to Bragin, as was my custom, to sell cabbages, or whatever we had to sell. Lunch I would have, with coffee, at the little inn at Bouvet, but the black bread, and cheese, and a red apple, Marie put in my basket, as usual, for my supper, for I could not return until well into the night.

’As I drove my miles, I came at last, as I knew I should, to the roadmenders.

‘The men scarcely glanced at me, but went on with their work. The soldier was ahead, keeping an eye on them. When I came to him he raised his cap and smiled, a crooked smile, with very white teeth showing.

'"Where are you going, sister?”

'"I am going all the way to Bragin,” I said.

'"A long distance,” he said, his eyes on me in their own bold manner.

'"Yes,” I answered.

'"You will not be back by nightfall.”

'"Not until long after moon-rise,” I said, my heart going hard. Then suddenly I made bold and feared nothing. “Marie is there,” I said; “go and have supper and satisfy your hunger. There is bread and milk and honey and a pot of cheese.” I said this last over ray shoulder; then I drove on, not daring to look back.

’When I got home there was no light in the little house. Had he come? It was white, white moonlight, mademoiselle, warm and white, with cool shadows. I cannot tell you how still it was. Perhaps it was not so still; perhaps some of the stillness was in myself. But it seemed as though the world had stopped.

’I went softly around by the stable. I heard the quick click of a bit, as when a horse tosses its head. We had no horse of our own. Then suddenly, in all the stillness and moonlight, I saw her coming from the fields, and the soldier with her. I shrank back in the shadow and waited. I noticed that when his hand lifted the kitchen latch and let her and himself in, she went before him as though he were no longer a guest, but master in the place. A moment later there was the flare of a match in the kitchen. I could see from where I stood that it was the soldier, not she, who lighted the candle. Still a moment later and he came out again, went to the stable, and led his horse out. When he was not far from me, and was near to the kitchen, I stepped out.

'"You are not going?” I said.

'"Good-day, sister. Yes, — I must go to-night; my regiment leaves for Algiers to-morrow.”

’I left them alone a moment, but I think they said no farewell. When I got back, he was busy adjusting his saddle-girth; and she was standing beside the larkspur, with a white face.

’He did not come again, mademoiselle. I think she knew that he would not. Little by little, as the days went, and she grew white and stricken, I had all I could do to bring her into any notice of me, or of the common things of life. She never needed to tell me her secret. Had I not planned — Was it not more my secret ; more mine than hers? She would sit by the hour with no word. I guessed that she had a great fear of God, and that she remembered, with fear, too, the one gone to Paris.

’One day, when I could endure her silence no longer, I said, “Marie, Marie, my little sister! Did not God put your great longing in you and mine in me? Has He not fashioned us? Shall we be afraid to trust what He will do with us, and with these longings of ours?”

’She did not answer, but only looked at me thin and startled, like a deer that faces the fear of death.

'"There is one thing,” I said, “that is clear between you and God and me. However else we may have sinned, — though I do not think it sin, — we have committed no sin against the unborn. The child that shall be ours is a wished-for child, an enfant voulu. There are women who sin in thought against the unborn, who do not desire little children; who are dismayed, angry, bitter, when they find themselves possessed of the gift of God. But, oh, ours is better born, better born, Marie. It is a wished-for child, an enfant voulu. Think, Marie, of the ways of God. God knows. Need we teach Him? Is He so dull and we so wise? Are we his elders? Shall we set laws round about, his laws, and limits on those longings He has implanted? Shall we try to stifle a fire that He with his breath has kindled in us? Shall we give excuses into his hands for his intentions?”

’She laid her head in my lap suddenly and wept. After that she believed me to be very wise, and very familiar with God’s ways, and full of knowledge concerning Him.

’From then on, the responsibility seemed to me mine wholly; and the sin, if it was sin, was mine, too, not hers. But I knew in my own wise heart that it was no sin. I exulted in God and in my own daring, though, out of respect for her more fearing nature, I said no more. But I waited and saw the young moon wax, and bloom full, and darken, like a flower that grows and blooms and fades and disappears, a dark seed in the dark of night, for a new moon to grow. Little by little, the long time was got over and God brought the waiting to an end. I used to lie in my bed, staring awake, when I lay down to rest, wondering what it must be like to be like Marie in the little room across the hall, with life and death on either side of the bed, and the gift of God trembling and crying against your heart.

’It was I who was with her. It was I who saw the child first. I do not know where the child’s father was, — in a hot barracks, playing cards by the light of a smoky lantern in Algiers, perhaps, — never guessing. It did not matter. The child seemed not his but hers; not hers but mine.

’You have wondered why I am more educated than Marie, — why I even know about Helen of Troy and Raphael and Monsieur Thiers. Well, I had read some, studied some, before; but now I read more and more, to be the better fitted to be wise toward the child that was ours. I sent to Paris for some books.

’I wish you could have seen Marie when the wonder was all new, all new and radiant and full of glory like the crèche on Christmas morning. There was such a light about her face that I went away from her many a time in those first days, to go down on my knees. For I began to know now that there was indeed some sin, after all, that I had not suspected. For I knew that it must be a sin, surely, that any human hand should dare to create such glory — the hand of one like me, least of all, to whom God had so expressly forbidden that joy. I cannot explain to you. It was as though in the darkness I had defied God and had said, “Let there be light,” — and there was light; and I was dazzled and afraid of it.

’Yet this was only in moments, in big moments; for the rest there was the comfort, the piercing comfort of the little cry in the dark in the midst of the night.

’The days went by. I grew more content as I grew more used to the presence of the child. If we were shut apart now from our kind, and if the butcher’s wife would not speak to us — what did it matter! We had the better treasure. The law and society are made by man, but the longing of a woman was put in her heart long ago when God fashioned her. I told myself this and I told myself, too, that God would never have fulfilled my wish if it had been wrong. God had denied me to be a mother, that is true; He had bent and twisted me with suffering. But shall you tell me God does not know what He is about? I was bent into a gnarled root with no hope of blossom of my own, but Marie was the branch and the child was the flower, and the flower was mine, after all. It could never be quite said that I had not tasted motherhood.

’It was almost before I knew it that the child was three years old, with gold hair and little gentle ways. They were the happiest days of my life, the kind of days the Virgin must have had when the Christ Child was little, before all the trouble began. Only now and then a great dread came to me lest, as a punishment, some ill should befall the child.

’One evening I was in the kitchen and Marie was in the little front dooryard to get the coolness. The child was on my lap and I was reading. Presently I turned the lamp low, lifted the child, and went out into the cool, also, into the little arbor. It was so, often, that the child and I sat apart from Marie, and she from us. One must have one’s own thoughts, and sometimes the stars to one’s self.

’The child was soon asleep on my arm. It was starlight, and the trees and the lilac bushes made big dark shadows; soft, as shadows are in the light of the stars.

’Suddenly, I heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs approaching on the road, then their pause at the gate. A moment later I heard the gate click and a step on the gravel. My heart stood still. No one visited us now. It was a man’s step. It was like the night long ago, — like something that had happened before.

’All at once, like a stroke out of darkness I knew. I knew that the soldier had cared for her, after all, in his own fashion, and had returned to her. The child was not mine, then, after all; not hers and mine, and mostly mine. It was rightly his. If he cared for her enough to come back, he would care for the child, too, — in some strange fashion, — as men do. They like to possess things. That is why they like children of their own.

’I could see that Marie had already risen. I could not tell whether she was alarmed or expectant. Perhaps she had cared, too. I could see his figure in the dim starlight come up the walk. I could see that he stopped before her and looked into her face. Then I heard him say, —

'"Is this Marie?”

’She did not answer; only put her hand on her breast. He repeated the question, —

'"Is this Marie?”

’Then her voice, —

'"Yes, it is I. Why do you ask?”

'"Have you nothing to say to me?

I have come back to you, because I could not forget you.”

’Then her voice — in the same even, almost monotonous, tone: —

“Why should you think I do not know you. I have prayed, often, that you would come back.”

’This, too, was like another flash of lightning—heat lightning, that left everything darker. Not only had the soldier come back, but she had longed for him to come back; yes, longed for him, as I had not dreamed she would. The child was, indeed, not mine, but theirs, quite theirs.

’I knew, I had heard said, that the very bearing of the physical pain will make a woman care for the father of her child — though she may not have cared before. It is God’s way, it seems. It is such power that God has given to motherhood — that it may, like Himself, work miracles, from left to right as it goes. She had not borne this child for me, though that had been her first intent. She cared now for the child’s father. Their whole world and the child seemed suddenly struck apart from mine. His coming back changed everything. I had lost the child, not by illness, as I had so often dreaded, not by death, but by the mere beat of hoofs on the Bragin road, and the click of a gate in the starlight, such little things as I would never have suspected.

’Then I heard him speaking: —

'"Will you come to the light?” There was a patch of candlelight falling from within through an open window; falling across the grass, tine little shellpath, and over the larkspur. “I want to see you. I want to see how you have changed since I have been gone.”

’I could just see that he stretched out his hand to her and led her over to where the light fell. She stepped into the soft glow. Her back was toward me.

’Then, from the shadow, he, too, stepped into the light and looked down into her face. I bent forward and looked. I saw the whole thing now. I saw that the face of this man looking into hers was not the hungry face that I supposed it to be. It was lit with anot her feeling — oh, another feeling — and — it was the face, not of the soldier, not of the soldier. It was the face of Jean Marie, of Jean Marie.

’In the moment that he looked at her, my world fell apart. I was dazed, yet I knew. I saw. Everything was clear. What followed was flashed on my mind, before either of them spoke; like lightning that flashes fast, the thunder lagging after. But I had to listen. Then I heard him say, —

'"Oh, my well-beloved!”

’She answered him nothing, nothing at all; just stood there allowing him to search her face for the old, lost girlhood.

’By the look in his face I knew he had found it, to his own satisfaction. He had found it; for, with a little quick motion, he took her hands.

’Then, like the older man he had grown to be, he bent and folded her to him and kissed her long, straight on the lips. It was like Marie to submit and speak afterwards, if he would have let her speak. But he spoke, himself, rapidly, urgently, kissing her between the rapid words.

'"I have seen the women of Paris; but always beyond them, at their very shoulders, I saw you in your white dress,” — he kissed her at the memory,— “and the white stockings,” — he kissed her again and laughed, — “for I even noticed those, —• and the blue ribbon, and the larkspur. Have you still got the dress?” holding away from her a little to look at her.

’She nodded.

'"Yes; in a drawer upstairs, where now and again I take it out and look at it.”

’He kissed her, and hurried on.

'"And when I drank wine at little tables on the faubourg, and saw those small-mouthed women, with their high heels and their great over-sized hats and when I talked with them, — do you know what I said? I said to myself, ’These women are amusing for a time, if you like, for a time, Jean Marie, but la! la! good God! one knows well what city women with painted cheeks are! How a man may have them or leave them; and how other men have had them and left them before.' And then I would think of you, — you in your white dress and the blue ribbon, — you, you all untouched, by any man, — you, Marie, — you! ”

’I could see that she pushed herself away from him a little, though he still had his way with her and his arms about her. Then, elated, I think, by her silence, remembering all the shyness and quietness of her, he drew her to him again like something lost and found and rejoiced over. He kissed her once, twice, then held her, looking down at her, — then kissed her again. They seemed to be wholly one, the way a man and woman should be.

’When she finally had pushed herself gently free, I saw her brush her hair, which he had disordered, back from her eyes.

'"You are mistaken,” she said. Her voice sounded still and quiet like a part of the night.

'"How?” he said.

'"I am not what you think me.”

’The short glory was over now, almost over. The great trouble had begun to touch him, too.

'"Will you tell me what you mean? You said you had prayed for me to return. Is it so?” He was puzzled.

’She nodded. “Yes.”

'"You are not married, then?” There was a kind of quiet horror in his voice.

’She shook her head.

He looked immensely relieved. He made a motion to take her to him again; but paused to think.

'"You have not of late changed in your feeling for me?”

‘She shook her head.

'"You care for me,” he urged. “You have always cared. You are not. married. What have we then to fear? Come; out with it! It is some duty — some fancied duty — to your crippled sister. Bah!” He tossed his head in quick contempt of such a reason. “I have always thought there would be doubtless some foolish devotion to her; yes, I have, positively. But because she will never marry — does it mean, bon Dieu, that you and I must have spoiled lives and unfulfilled hopes?”

’Yes, he said just that.

’Then, — it was like Marie to speak with such directness, and unlike, I think, every other woman in the world.

'"I have had a child,” she said simply.

’He recoiled from her — a slow movement, a very slow movement — as though he had come suddenly, yet in time, on something horrible and unbelievable. Then he said just one word, —

'"You! ”

’It seemed a long time before he spoke; a long time that she stood there. When he put his next question it was that of a man, and full, as a man’s questions are, of curiosity and jealousy.

'"And the man? You were in love with him?”

’She shook her head again, and he recoiled from her a very little bit more.

’It seemed again a long time. When he spoke his voice was that of a man who has passed through the worst of sorrow, the voice of a man not sorrowful but indignant; indignant not only with one woman, but with all womankind.

'"Do you know, loose woman, what you have shattered? All my belief, all of it! Through everything, everything, when every ideal was failing me, when I myself was not pure, — and could count on no one, — I said, “But Marie, Marie is pure! " The painted women of the boulevard, one expects not more of them. One would not have them otherwise. They were not meant to be more than puppets to play with; never to be the mother of men’s children. But you, you—!” He paused, and began again. “Do you know what it is to rob a man like that? Do you know what you steal, you women? Bah!” He turned away, unable to go on.

’She just stood there, Marie did, wit h one hand on her breast. She made no defense, — none at all.

’I cannot recall, now, how it all happened. I only know that by-and-by Jean Marie was gone. I heard the gate click after him. I only know that byand-by I saw Marie enter the house.

’Then, despite all these numbing blows that had fallen, my brain began to work again. I think I have a good brain. Something must be done.

’I rose and laid the child down quickly, on the floor of the arbor, — than I ran — ran through the night.

’By cutting across the little path and across the little patch of grass, one comes to the field and across that to the road, beyond the bend. If I ran I could get there before Jean Marie. I felt the dew wet on my shoes and I ran on. I fell once flat on my two hands in the little ditch, but I got up and ran on. I was étourdie — lost in my mind, perhaps. Presently, I found I had gone too much to the right and had come to the wall, where, instead, I should have come to the opening. I ran along beside the wall; but I was losing time. I could hear the horse’s hoofs coming, coming, coming at a great gallop. Beyond the poplars I could see the road still at a little distance. I almost fell. I recovered myself and ran. I came at last to the opening and stumbled through it. Jean Marie was coming rapidly toward me. I ran forward, holding up my hands; but I was only a shadow in the darkness, no doubt. I would have called, but my voice was gone. If only I could be near when he passed by! I stumbled at last into the very ditch close by the road. His horse’s hoofs almost touched me. They thundered past. The dust flew in my face. I was within two feet of Jean Marie, within two feet of him. Had I been tall instead of bent, I could even have snatched at his bridle.

’He did not note. The last hope I had was riding with him away from me, swiftly away from me, in a fury, and with a beating of hoofs. Then, with a great effort, I raised myself in the ditch, flung my hands in the air, and cried, “Jean Marie! Jean Marie! Come back! ”

’It may be that the beat of the hoofs drowned the sound. I do not know. It may be that he thought it was Marie, and would not turn. I called again, but the horse galloped on. The galloping of the horse grew fainter. It was beginning to be a long way off. Then, presently, in a little while more, it was gone, lost in the night.

’I do not know, rightly, how I got back to the house. I do not know, rightly, how any of the moments happened after that — except that by-andby I entered the arbor and took up the child again, as one takes up a burden. It was the first time in the world that she had felt heavy to me. She slept soundly. I carried her upstairs and placed her in my room as I often did. Marie must have been already in bed, I thought. Her light was out and her door partly open, as she always left it. Far into the night it seemed to me that I must go to her and talk to her of this fearful thing. I got up softly. When I got to my door — I looked across the hall. Her door was closed. It was enough — neither she nor God wished to talk about this thing. I returned to my bed. I had the child I had wished for, by my side. So we remained all that night.

’No, mademoiselle. I have never spoken to her about it, have never told her that I know. You see, it is this way: I have thought much and deeply, and I know that life is bearable so long as one is serving others, and above all so long as one is serving them better than they suspect. It is that that puts some little glory into life, — to give to those we love always a little more than is required; to serve them covertly better than they guess.

’If I told Marie that I knew about the coming-back of Jean Marie, it would be like robbing her of something more. As it is she can watch me often, with the child in my arms, and she can think, “It was for Zephine’s happiness that all this was suffered. If she is happy it is worth while. She must never, never know that I suffer.” And so, you see, she will have a new service to render and to make life worth the living. I shall be like another child, for whom she has suffered pangs of the flesh and spirit.

Even when she sits at dusk, near the larkspurs, thinking of Jean Marie, this thought will give her strength. She will see me coming down the path with the child, and she will be glad at sight of me. For it is not those who sacrifice themselves for us that we most love, but always, always, those for whom we sacrifice ourselves. That is the true motherhood, and it is Marie who has it. You see I have not sacrificed myself; not at all. I am no true mother, and that is as God intended it,

— but she is; she is.’

’Your own silence is a sacrifice, too, perhaps,’ I ventured.

She shook her head and smiled.

’Some day, I want you to tell her; that is, if I should die first. In that case I want her to know. But if she goes first I shall leave it to God : He will take a moment aside some time to explain it to her. He could do it in a few words. As it is, she sits often at night there by the larkspur, with the candle-light from within falling in a patch across the flowers as it did that night, — and I know that she sees Jean Marie’s face and remembers the kisses that he gave her in the starlight; but she says nothing.

’Not long ago I saw her take out the white dress and the white silk stockings and the blue ribbon. She wrapped them in a sheet and put them all away, up in the attic, in a trunk containing things that belong to my dead mother

— a trunk that we never open.’