Dusk, the dreary November dusk, had fallen as Louise hurried homeward across the damp fields and deserted country roads. She had refused Mrs. Yule's urgent offer to accompany her or to send some one with her. She wanted to be alone—alone to look her happiness in the face, alone with her new heaven-sent ecstasy of gratitude. After the nightmare-days of hopelessness and despair, behold! life was to be renewed, retrieved, redeemed. Like a grey cloak of misery her anguish fell away from her; she stepped forth blissful and entranced into the pathway of her reflowering youth.

And with the certainty of this deliverance came the faith and hope in all other joys. Claude would return to her; Belgium would be liberated and redeemed. Mireille would find her speech again! Yes, Mireille would find her sweet, soft smile and her sweet shrill laughter. Might it not be Louise's own gloom that had plunged the sensitive soul of her child into darkness? Surely now that the storm-cloud was to be lifted from her, also the over-shadowed child-spirit would flutter back again into the golden springlight of its day. Surely all joys were possible in this most beautiful and joyous world. And Louise went with quick, light steps through the gloaming, half-expecting to see Mireille, already healed, come dancing towards her, gay and garrulous, calling her as she used to do by her pet name, "Loulou!"

Or it might be ChÉrie who would run to meet her, waving her hand to tell her that the miracle had come to pass!

ChÉrie! The name, the thought of ChÉrie struck at Louise's heart like a sudden blow. Her quick footsteps halted. As if a gust of the November wind had blown out the light of her happiness, she stood suddenly still in the middle of the road and felt that around her there was darkness again.

ChÉrie!... What was it that the doctor had said to her as he came with her to the gate of the Vicarage, as he held her hand in his firm, strong grasp, promising to save her from the deep waters of despair? What were the words she had then neither understood nor answered, borne away as she was on the wave of her own tumultuous joy? They suddenly came back to her now; they suddenly reached her hearing and comprehension. He had said, looking her full in the face with a meaning gaze, "What about your sister?"

"What about your sister?" Your sister. Of course he had meant ChÉrie. What about her? What about her? Again Louise felt that dull thud in her heart as if some one had struck it, for she knew, she knew what he meant—she knew what there was about ChÉrie.

There was the same abomination, the same impending horror and disgrace. Had not ChÉrie herself come and told her, in bewilderment and simplicity, of the strange questionings, the obscure warnings Mrs. Whitaker and the doctor had subjected her to? Ah, Louise knew but too well what it all meant; Louise knew but too well what there was about ChÉrie that even to strangers was manifest and unmistakable. Yes, Louise had dreaded it, had felt it, had known it—though ChÉrie herself had not. But until now her own torment of body and soul had hidden all else from her gaze, had made all that was not her own misery as unreal and unimportant as a dream. Vaguely, in the background of her thoughts, she had known that there was still another disaster to face, another fiery ordeal to encounter, but swept along in the vortex of her own doom she had flung those thoughts aside; in her own life-and-death struggle she had not stopped to ask, What of that other soul driving to shipwreck beside her, broken and submerged by the self-same storm?

But now it must be faced. She must tell the unwitting ChÉrie what the future held for her. She must stun her with the revelation of her shame.

For Louise understood—however incredible it might seem to others—that ChÉrie was wholly unaware of what had befallen her on that night when terror, inebriety, and violence had plunged her into unconsciousness. Not a glimmer of the truth had dawned on her simplicity, not a breath of knowledge had touched her inexperience. Sullied and yet immaculate, violated and yet undefiled—of her could it indeed be said that she had conceived without sin.

Louise went on in the falling darkness with lagging footsteps. Deep down in her heart her happiness hid its face for the sorrow and shame she must bring to another.

Then she remembered—with what deep thankfulness!—that though she must inflict this hideous hurt on ChÉrie, yet she could also speak to her of help, she could promise her release and the hope of ultimate peace and oblivion.

She hurried forward through the darkening lanes, and soon joy awoke again and sang within her. Yes! There they stood at the open gate, the two beloved waiting figures—the taller, ChÉrie, with her arm round the slender form of Mireille. Louise ran towards them with buoyant step.

"Louise!" cried ChÉrie. "Where have you been? How quickly you walk! How bright and happy you look! Why, I could see your smile shining from far off in the darkness!"

Louise kissed the soft, cold cheeks of both; she took ChÉrie's warm hand and the chilly little hand of Mireille and went with them towards the house. How cheerful were the lighted windows seen through the trees! How sheltered and peaceful was this refuge! How gracious and generous were the strangers who had housed and nourished them!

How kind and good and beautiful was life!

"Tell me the truth, Louise," said ChÉrie that evening, when, having seen little Mireille safely asleep, Louise returned to the cheerful sitting-room, where the dancing firelight gleamed on the pink walls and cosy drawn curtains. "Tell me the truth. You have heard something—something from Claude ... something——" ChÉrie flushed to the lovely low line of the growth of her auburn curls—"from Florian! You have, you have! I can read it in your face. You have had news of some kind."

Yes—Louise had had news.

"Good news——"

Yes. Good news. She sat down on a low armchair near the fire and beckoned with her finger. "ChÉrie!"

The girl came quickly to her side and sat down on the rug at her feet. The fire danced and flickered on her red-gold hair and milkwhite oval face.

"ChÉrie." ... Louise's voice was low, her eyes cast down. She felt like a torturer, she felt as if she were murdering a flower, tearing asunder the closed petals of this girlish soul and filling its cup with poison.

ChÉrie was looking up into her face with a radiant, expectant smile.

How should she tell her? How should she tell her?...

Louise bent forward and covered the shining, questioning eyes with her hand. "Tomorrow, ChÉrie! Tomorrow."