Paulette laughed a little grimly. “This person took your measure very correctly, nevertheless. It was a clever trick. The good heart, the good heart of him, and the delicacy. Otherwise one could not accept, no, of course, one could not. Now there is nothing to say. There is no proof possible. One can only use guesswork, but that is easy enough.” Then suddenly it dawned upon Lucie. “Victor!” she cried. “Of course I remember now that he made me step upon the newspaper, and that the footprint, that very muddy footprint, was quite distinct. He folded up the paper and put it back in his pocket. I wondered a little at his doing that.” “One can see through a millstone,” responded Paulette. “Even I have solved deeper riddles.” Lucie continued to regard the shoes thoughtfully. “It is as you say, Paulette, under different circumstances I could not accept them. Even now it seems very strange that Victor Guerin should be giving Lucie Du Bois a pair of shoes. I think even now I shall have to ask him outright, and I shall not wear the shoes till I have his answer.” Paulette nodded approbation of this proud speech. “Continue to keep your pride as long as you can, my child,” she said. “We may have to accept help but the moment has not come yet.” “If it does come,” returned Lucie, “I hope I may be able to return it in a proper way. I shall write to Victor at once.” But before an answer could come to her letter came direct news from her father which relieved her mind as well as Paulette’s. “You cannot imagine, my precious child,” he wrote, “the great relief which Victor Guerin’s letter brought me. All this time and not a word from you! My imagination has pictured a thousand dreadful things which might have befallen you. That you are safe and well gives me great joy, and it is the utmost satisfaction I feel in knowing that you are with Paulette who will take good care of you, I am sure. I have made arrangements to have a certain sum paid you every month, and this I hope will give you more comfort. I have nearly recovered my health and expect soon to go back to my duties.” Then followed definite directions about the monthly allowance, words of endearment, messages to Paulette and a promise to write often, but the closing words, “Not a line from your mother,” were discouraging. Lucie could scarcely wait for Paulette to come home on the day this letter was received, and there was great danger that the dinner would either be spoiled or that there would be no dinner at all. A dozen times the child ran out to see if she could catch sight of Paulette toiling up the stairs. At last appeared the well-worn shawl, the black handkerchief tied around the head. “Paulette, Paulette,” cried Lucie, “come quickly. I have news, good news.” Paulette quickened her tread and arrived quite out of breath. “Madame? Your mother?” she panted.