“We will ask him,” returned Miles sturdily, “but I will not credit such a dismal prophecy unless I must.” Clotilde would have given much to feel as he did, but could not put aside the secret misgiving hidden in her heart. She never let Miles see her looking at the picture again, but she peeped at it more than once, none the less. Quaint and rude as was the old woodcut, there was still something very earnest and very terrible about the face and figure that were supposed to resemble Jeremiah Macrae’s. Before Stephen returned, however, the affair had very nearly drifted from her mind. There were long, long months now when the master of the house was from home, when she missed him sorely and when Mother Jeanne would shake her head and say: “Our good Monsieur has not too strong a hold upon health. It will cost him his life if he does not give up these endless journeyings.” There came an evening when Stephen, after a long absence, drew rein before the door and dismounted, almost too weary to climb the wide, stone steps. It was to a nearly empty house that he came, for the servants had all gone to some festival in the village and only Clotilde came running out to welcome him with a shout of joy, while Mère Jeanne stood smiling and curtseying in the doorway. “There will be three men to sup with me,” said Stephen, “so have all in readiness as soon as you can. And let my man Michael, when he has carried in the saddle bags, eat and go to bed at once, for he is worn out with our long riding.” “But yourself, Monsieur!” Mother Jeanne ventured to remonstrate. “No, no, woman,” he replied quickly, “I am not weary and have much work to do.” The guests arrived presently, all three riding up to the door together. There was Doctor Thorndyke of Hopewell in his shabby plum-coloured coat and muddy boots, and with him two strangers, one from Boston, so Clotilde gathered from their talk, and one from Salem. “We came in company,” said Doctor Thorndyke as he dismounted at the steps, “for our friend here tells me that a man rode after him half way from the last inn and that he fears some rascal may have got wind of the money that we carry.” He unstrapped his saddle bags and carried them into the house. “My faith,” he said, “but I am not often so valuable a man as I find myself to-night. I fairly jingle as I walk!”