“It is right that I should be the one to go. I have left a message for the governess. Tell her not to fear. I shall reach them sometime safely.” Whether because the wind changed freakishly, or because the voices had gone on down the driveway, Marie Josephine did not hear another word. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window and, kneeling, peered out. There was no one about, and she did not hear anything now, except the moan of the forest and the wail of the wind. She turned her head as she knelt against the window casement and there, coming toward her, was Cécile. How it happened Marie Josephine did not quite know, but the next moment she was sobbing with Cécile’s arms about her. Before she realized it she was in bed, tucked up warmly, with Cécile close beside her. She told Cécile of Dian’s story and then of the words she had just overheard, and she knew that Cécile was very excited though she spoke quietly. “Do you think it can be that Dian has gone to-night to Paris? Do you think that is what I overheard, Cécile?” Marie Josephine asked her friend, who answered steadily: “I think that Dian has gone, and we must pray that he can help them.” Cécile’s long braid of fair hair fell across her shoulders over her velvet robe. She put her face down on the pillow beside Marie Josephine and they both lay looking out at the late moon which showed fleetingly through white clouds. “I thought you had deserted me for your little friend Jean. You seemed happy, just playing with him, and I was glad for you, but I have missed your company so much of late,” Cécile said softly. “I thought you’d rather be with the others, and that you look upon me as a baby, the way the rest do,” Marie Josephine answered with a sob, putting her arms around Cécile. “No, Marie, I sometimes think of you as being the oldest of us all, and the wisest. You think and dream when we are only sitting by and sewing. Perhaps it is because you are so close to the wild wood things—perhaps that is what makes you wise,” Cécile said. “I’m not wise, but Dian is. He will take care of Lisle, I know he will.” Marie Josephine smiled confidently in the dark as she spoke. She lay awake beside Cécile for a long time, Great-aunt Hortense’s tapestry covering them both. Dian was on his way through the wind-swept night. Cécile, too, was awake. She was thinking of Lisle in his blue velvet and diamonds and his jeweled sword, of the minuet which they had danced together at the bal masqué on that last strange, happy evening. Dian was on his way to help; for that she was thankful. Had she known of Humphrey Trail, in the dingy Paris alley room, she would have been more thankful still. Had she known of some of the plans in the mind of the friend who lay beside her in the great four-poster bed, she would have been astounded and alarmed! CHAPTER X IN THE SNOWSTORM