"I find it very beautiful," said Aline. "It is so long since I saw trees and flowers, and the sun going down amongst the hills. My window in Paris looked into a street like a gutter, and one could only see, oh, such a little piece of sky." As she spoke Ange came in with a lamp, which she set beside the bed; and immediately the glowing sky seemed to fade and recede to an immeasurable distance. In the lamplight the likeness which had startled Aline almost disappeared. Marthe Desaix’ strong, handsome features were in their original cast almost identical with those of her nephew, but seen full face, they were so blanched and lined with pain that the resemblance was blurred, and the big dark eyes, like pools of ink, had nothing in common with Dangeau’s. Aline herself was conscious of being looked up and down. Then Marthe Desaix said, with a queer twist of the mouth: "You did not live long in Paris, then?" "It seemed a long time," said Aline. "It seems years when I try to look back, but it really is n’t a year yet." "You like the country?" "Yes, I think so," faltered Aline, conscious of having said too much. "Poor child," said Ange. "It is sad for you this separation. I know what you must feel. You have been married so short a time, and he has to leave you. It is very hard, but the time will pass, and we will try and make you happy." "You are very good," said Aline in a low voice. Then she looked and saw Mlle Marthe’s eyes gazing at her between perplexity and sarcasm. When Aline was in bed, Ange heard her sister’s views at length. "A still tongue ’s best, my Ange, but between you and me"—she shrugged her shoulders, and then bit her lip, as the movement jarred her—"there is certainly something strange about ’our new niece,’ as you call her." "Well, she is our nephew’s wife," said Ange. "Our nephew’s wife, but no wife for our nephew, if I’m not much mistaken," returned Marthe sharply. "I thought she looked sweet, and good." "Good, good—yes, we ’re all good at that age! Bless my soul, Ange, if goodness made a happy marriage, the devil would soon have more holidays than working days." "Ma chérie, if any one heard you!" "Well, they don’t, and I should n’t mind if they did. What I do mind is that Jacques should have made a marriage which will probably break his heart." "But why, why?" "Oh, my Angel, if you saw things under your nose as clearly as you do those that are a hundred years away, you would n’t have to ask why." "I saw nothing wrong," said Ange in a voice of distress. "I did not say the girl was a thief, or a murderess," returned Marthe quickly. "No, I ’ll not tell you what I mean,—not if you were to ask me on your knees,—not if you were to beg it with your last breath." Ange laughed a little. "Well, well, dearest, perhaps I shall guess. Good-night, and sleep well." "As if I ever slept well!" "Poor darling! Poor dearest! Is it so bad to-night? Let me turn the pillow. Is it a little better so?"