She went on blindly toward the water, and stood there a long time. Then, in the strait of her agony, there came to Frances Waldeaux, for the first time in her life, a perception that there was help for her in the world, outside of her own strength. Her poor tortured wits discerned One, more real than her crime, or George, or the woman that she had killed. It was an old, hackneyed story, that He knew every man and woman in the world, that He could help them. She had heard it often. Was there any thing in it? Could He help her? Slowly, the nervous twitching of her body quieted, her dulled eyes cleared as if a new power of sight were coming to them. After a long time she heard steps, and Selo calling. She rose. The murder was known. They were coming to arrest her. What did it matter? She had found help. Selo came up excitedly. "It is another boat, English folk also, that comes to arrive." She turned and waited. And then, coming up the hill, she saw George, and with him--Lisa! Lisa, smiling as she talked. They ran to meet her with cries of amazement. She staggered back on the rock. "You are not dead? Lisa----" "Dead? Poor lady!" catching her in her arms. "Some water, George! It is her head. She has been too much alone." When Frances opened her eyes she was lying on the grass, her children kneeling beside her. She caught Lisa's arm in both hands and felt it: then she sat up. "I must tell you what I did--before you speak to me." "Not now," said Lisa. "You are not well. I am going to be your nurse. The baby has made me a very good nurse," and she stooped again over Frances, with kind, smiling eyes. Selo came to wile George up to the mysterious cave, but Lisa impatiently hurried them to the beach. "Caves and serpent worshippers truly!" she cried. "Why, she has not seen Jacques!" and when, in the boat, George, who was greatly alarmed, tried to rouse his mother from her silent stupor, Lisa said gayly, "She will be herself again as soon as she sees HIM." When they reached Larmor Baden, she despatched George in search of Colette and the child, and she went into the church. It was late, and the village women sat on the steps gossipping in the slanting sunlight. There is nothing in their lives but work and the church; and when, each day, they have finished with one they go to the other. Frances followed her. The sombre little church was vacant. She touched Lisa on the shoulder. "There is something I must tell you," she said. "You would not let me touch the child, if you knew it." She stooped and spoke a few sentences in a vehement whisper, and then leaned back, exhausted, against the wall. Lisa drew back. Her lips were white with sudden fright, but she scanned Mrs. Waldeaux's face keenly.