Aline felt a pang of awakening. Whilst she was dreaming here amongst the peace of herby scents and the drowse of harvesting bees, tragedy still moved on Fate’s highways, and she felt sudden terror and the sting of a sharp self-reproach. She shrank from Mlle Ange’s kind eyes of pity, touched—just touched—with an unfaltering faith in the necessity for the appalling judgment. The misty hazel eyes wept bitterly, but the will behind them bowed loyally to the decrees of the Revolution. "There ’s no great cause without its victim, no new faith without bloodshed," she said to Marthe, with a kindling glance. "I said nothing, my dear," was the dry reply. Ange paced the room, brushing away hot tears. "It is for the future, for the new generations, that we make these sacrifices, these terrible sacrifices," she cried. "Oh, my dear!" said Marthe quickly, and then added with a shrug: "For me, I never felt any vocation for reforming the world; and if I were you, my Angel, I would let it alone. The devil has too much to do with things in general, that is my opinion." "There is nothing I can do," said Ange, at her saddest. "Thank Heaven for that!" observed her sister piously. "But I will tell you one thing—you need not talk of noble sacrifices and such-like toys in front of Jacques’s wife." "I would not hurt her," said Ange; "but, chérie, she is a Republican’s wife—she must know his views, his aims. Why, he voted for the King’s death!" "Just so," nodded Marthe: "he voted for the King’s death. I should keep a still tongue, if I were you." "You still think——?" "Think?" with scorn. "I am sure." A few days later there was a letter from Dangeau, just a few lines. He was well. Lyons still held out, but they hoped that any day might end the siege. He begged to be commended to his aunts. Aline read the letter aloud, in a faltering voice, then laid it in her lap, and sat staring at it with eyes that suddenly filled, and saw the letters now blurred, now unnaturally black and large. Mlle Ange went out of the room, leaving her alone under Marthe’s intent regard; but for once she was too absorbed to heed it, and sat there looking into her lap and twisting her wedding-ring round and round. Marthe’s voice broke crisply in upon her thoughts. "So he married you with his mother’s ring?" She started, covering it quickly with her other hand. "Is it? No, I didn’t know," she murmured confusedly. Then, with an effort at defence: "How do you know, Mademoiselle Marthe?" "How does one know anything, child? By using one’s eyes, and putting two and two together. Sometimes they make four, and sometimes they don’t, but it ’s worth trying. The ring is plainly old, and my sister wore just such another; and after her death Jacques wore it too, on his little finger. He adored his mother."