Dr. Reynolds kept his promise to Louise.

In a private nursing-home in London the deed of mercy and of ruthlessness was accomplished. The pitiable spark of life was quenched.

Out of the depths of darkness and despair Louise, after wavering for many days on the threshold of death, came slowly back to life once more.

During the many weeks she was in the nursing-home she saw neither ChÉrie nor Mireille; but Mrs. Yule came nearly every day and brought good news of them both, saying how happy she and her husband were to have them at the Vicarage.

For Mr. Yule himself had gone to the Whitakers' house, an hour after Louise had left it with Dr. Reynolds, and had taken the two forlorn young creatures away. Their stricken youth found shelter in his house, where Mireille's affliction and ChÉrie's tragic condition were alike sacred to his generous heart.

The little blind girl, Lilian, adored them both. She used to sit between them—often resting her face against Mireille's arm, or holding the child's hand in hers—listening to ChÉrie's tales of their childhood in Belgium. She was never tired of hearing about ChÉrie's school-days at Mademoiselle Thibaut's pensionnat; of her trips to Brussels and Antwerp, and the horrors of the dungeons of ChÂteau Steen; of her bicycle-lessons on the sands of Westende under the instruction of the monkey-man; and above all of her visits to Braine l'Alleude and the battle-field of Waterloo, where she had actually drunk coffee in Wellington's sitting-room, and rested in his very own armchair....

Lilian, with her closed eyes and intent face—always turned slightly upward as if yearning towards the light—listened eagerly, exclaiming every now and then with a little excited laugh, "I see ... I see...." And those words and the sweet expression of the small ecstatic face made ChÉrie's voice falter and the tears suffuse her eyes.

One day a letter came. It was from Claude. He had almost completely recovered from his wound and was leaving the hospital in Dunkirk to go to the front again. He sent all his love and all God's blessings to Louise and to his little Mireille and to ChÉrie. They would meet again in the happier days soon to come. Had they news of Florian? The last he had heard of him was a card from the trenches at Loos....

And that same day—a snowy day in December—Louise at length returned from her ordeal and stood, a pale and ghostly figure, at the Vicarage door. To her also it opened wide, and her faltering footsteps were led with love and tenderness to the firelight of the hospitable hearth.

There in the vicar's leather armchair, with the vicar's favourite collie curled at her feet, sat Mireille; her soft hair parted in the middle and tied with a blue ribbon by Mrs. Yule; a gold bangle, given her by Lilian, on her slim wrist. With a cry of joy and gratitude Louise knelt before her, kissing the soft chill hands, the silent mouth, the eyes that did not recognize her.

"Mireille, Mireille! Can you not say a word to me? Not a word? Say, 'Welcome, mother!' Say it, darling! Say, 'Maman, bonjour.'"

But the child's lips remained closed; the singing fountain of her voice was sealed.

The door opened, and ChÉrie entered the room—a ChÉrie altered and strange in her new and tragic dignity.

Louise involuntarily drew back, gazing in amazement at the significant change of form and feature; then with a sob of passionate pity she went to her and folded her in her arms.

ChÉrie, with a smile and a sigh, bowed her head upon Louise's breast.