"Joyce." His voice was almost solemn in its intensity. "I don't believe there is anything I can say that you would understand now. God knows, I pity you from the bottom of my soul and, God helping me, I'm going to help you in the best way I can. You need rest more than any other little woman in the world to-night, I reckon, go in there," he nodded toward his own chamber, "and try your best to sleep. I want to smoke and think it all out here by the fire. Remember, you are safe." She rose stiffly and stood before him. Fear was gone from her; weakness remained; a horrible, sickening weakness, but no fear. Vaguely, gropingly, she tried to understand what lay behind his slow, solemn words, but the effort was too great. She sighed and looked down upon him as if he had suddenly become a stranger to her, then, stepping backward, with uncertain faltering movement, she gained the door of that room where no foot but Gaston's had ever before stepped. CHAPTER X It was mid-October when Ralph Drew, his pretty sister Constance and his devoted maiden aunt--Miss Sally Drew--arrived in St. Ange and took up their new life in the bungalow which, under Jude Lauzoon's contractorship, had been made ready. During his first short stay in St. Ange young Drew had regained not only his lost strength, but he had gained an insight into the needs of the men and women of the small place. He had always intended doing something for the village and its inhabitants after his return to town for they had appealed strongly to his emotional and sympathetic nature. But what St. Ange had vouchsafed in the way of restored health, she had begrudgingly bestowed. To have and to hold what she had given, the recipient must, in return, vow allegiance to her, and, forsaking all others, cling to her pines and silent places. He must forswear old habits and environment--he must give up all else and fling himself upon her mercy. It had been hard. Back there in the town, where the pulse of things beat high, he had fought the knowledge inch by inch. "Would a year be enough?" It would be useless. "If winters were spent there--several winters?" The big specialist shook his head. High, dry mountains, somewhere, were the only hope. St. Ange was comparatively near, she had given a hint as to what she could do--better trust her. One after another the outposts of lingering hope were taken by the grim, white Spectre. He must abdicate, and accept what terms the enemy offered. Wan, and defeated, but still with the high courage that was his only possession, Drew tried to get the new outlook. If there were to be--life, then there must be work, God's work; he was no coward, he would do his part. Mingled with the many, dear, familiar things of the life that no longer was to be his, was a slim, pretty, little girl whom he had enshrined in his college days, and before whom he had laid his heart's sacredest offerings since. She, and his splendid courage would make even St. Ange a Paradise.