It was on a Saturday that Dangeau had stormed, proffered friendship, and kissed Mademoiselle’s hand, so that during the two days that followed both had time to calm down, to experience a slight revulsion of feeling, and finally to feel some embarrassment at the thought of their next meeting. On Tuesday Dangeau was in his room all the afternoon. He had some important papers to read through, and when he had finished them, felt restless, yet disinclined to go out again. It was still light, but the winter dark would fall in half an hour, and the evening promised to be wet and stormy. A gust of wind beat upon the window now and again, leaving it sprayed with moisture. Dangeau stood awhile looking out, his mood grey as the weather. Some one not far off was singing, and he opened his window, and leaned idly out to see if the singer were visible. The sound at once grew faint, almost to extinction, and latching the casement he fell to pacing his room. By the door he paused, for the sound was surely clearer. He turned the handle and stood listening, for Mademoiselle’s door was ajar, and from within her voice came sweetly and low. He had an instant vision of how she would look, sitting close to the dull window, grey twilight on the shining head bent over the fine white work as she sang to keep the silence and the loneliness from her heart. The song was one of those soft interminable cradle songs which mothers sing in every country place, rocking the full cradle with patient rhythmic foot, the while they spin or knit, and every word came clear to a lilting air: "She sat beneath the wayside tree, Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la— She heard the birds sing wide and free, Hail Mary, full of grace! "She had no shelter for her head, Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la, Except the leaves that God had spread— Hail Mary, full of grace! "Down flew the Angel Gabriel, Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la, He said, ’Maid Mary, greet thee well!’ Hail Mary, full of grace!" The song was interrupted for a moment, but he heard her hum the tune. To the lonely man came a swift, holy thought of what it would be to see her rock a child to that soft air in a happy twilight, no longer solitary. He heard her move her chair and sigh a little as she sat down again. The daylight died as if with gasps for breath palpably withdrawn: "She laid her Son in the oxen’s stall, Et lon, lon, lon, et la, la, la— Herself she did not rest at all, Hail Mary, full of grace!" Another pause, another sigh, and then the sound of steps moving about the room. Then the door was shut, and with a little smile half tender, half impatient, Dangeau turned to his work again. When the evening was come, and Mademoiselle was in her place, he asked her suddenly: "What do you do with yourself on Sunday?" "I take a holiday, Citizen," she answered demurely, and without looking up.