They told her of Denise and the others, but they were too tired, all of them, to do more than that. There would be many a long winter evening in England when they could tell each other’s adventures. Now they must keep their thoughts on the barn, on the others, and on the blessed fishing schooner which would mean life for them. Dian sat with his eyes closed, unmindful of Jean’s chatter with Champar. Vivi was safe. She had gone through with her own passport the morning before, fortunately unknown to her friend who had night duty at the gate, and who had so unsuspectedly let the other Vivi and her friends through the gates. He would see that the others were safe, and then he would take Vivi and Jean back to his own Pigeon Valley, to the comfort and welcoming blessing of Mother Barbette and the quiet protection of the little low-roofed house in the wood of the Les Vignes demesne. He felt sure that the little house was there, safe among its ferns and flowers, whatever may have happened to the big one. Grigge! He had great hopes and plans for Grigge! He walked up the next hill with Lisle. “You and Humphrey for friends! Maman safe! Dian, what have any of us done to deserve it? Dian, it isn’t for always; France is my home. Dian, I’m not forgetting that I am the last one of the Saint Frères. Whatever happens, you’ll take some of the gold for—no, you’ll never want it, but for Grigge. Tell me, Dian, is that a way of helping a little?” Lisle looked up almost entreatingly into the shepherd’s face. “That is one way. Making Grigge your friend is a better one,” Dian answered him. “Grigge my friend? Yes, I see that that can be,” Lisle answered. They had reached a lane and Champar stopped his horses. “It was out here, wasn’t it, my young citizeness, that you shoved your dog off on some farm children? What’s that!” Something was dashing toward them down the fern-scented lane, something long and slender and grey. It was Flambeau! They drove on, encumbered by a dog who leaped from one to the other of them in wild delight, barking so sharply that Champar swore out loud, declaring he was tired of the whole lot of them, at the same time winking back a tear and urging the horses on furiously. “We should not take Flambeau, but, yes, we must, for he is a part of us,” exclaimed the comtesse as the dog’s warm tongue licked her face. He saw through the disguise of each one of them, as though his very love for them would not let him be deceived. “I would never, never have left you, Flambeau, angel, if I hadn’t been a tramp girl, dearie. You are so—so——” Marie Josephine murmured.