“Say you’ll marry me, Kit. You’ll be happier than you can dream. It is for your sake, too. See, I’m at your feet, Kit; take me! Helen is at your feet! And she will make you endlessly happy, dearest!” Kit’s will, his judgment, his hold on his own identity seemed to crumble and fall into nothingness. He stood for an instant with closed eyes, suffering, he did not know what. He knew that he would raise Helen in his arms in spite of himself. He knew that he must not raise her, for, if he touched her, that identity for which he groped would be forever lost. She waited at his feet, knowing that in a moment he would lift her from her self-abasement and then, in his arms, she would kiss him, and that Kit would marry her. It was but an instant of time, but it measured an eternity. A piping voice came singing behind the trees, a child’s voice, slight and not as lovely as a guardian angel’s, but it broke the spell as effectually as St. Michael the archangel’s could have done: “_Astre propice au marin, Conduis ma barque au rivage; Préserve-moi du naufrage, Blanche Étoile du Matin. Lorsque les flots en courroux Viendront menacer ma tête, Calme, calme la tempête, Rends pour moi le ciel plus doux._” it sang, not inappropriately, Kit thought, listening intently. He felt weak and dizzy from the sudden relaxation of the strain which he had borne. Little Anne appeared from among the trees. In her hand she held jewel weed, wilted from her hot little palm, but valiantly bright-coloured as it drooped. “Why, Kit, dear Kit!” cried little Anne in the glow of surprised delight. “I had no idea you’d be here when I came! And Miss Abercrombie, my kind Angora Kitca friend! What you doing down in the grass, Miss Abercrombie?” “Looking for four-leaf clovers for luck,” said Helen so savagely that little Anne fell back a step and looked up inquiringly at Kit. Kit managed a smile that sufficed for little Anne, though it added to her bewilderment, it was so unlike his usual bright friendliness. Little Anne was a lady with innate social instincts; here was something oppressive, not understandable, hence she must, obviously, arise to the occasion. “I was singing French, Kit,” she said. “I haven’t known how so very long. Could you understand what it was? Is my pronunciation pretty fair? That’s what Sister said it was. That’s a hymn to the Blessed Virgin. Mr. Latham taught me it. He heard it over in France; fishermen sing it, so do their children when they are at sea, sing it for their fathers, you know. Mr. Latham just said the words at first; I didn’t know what they meant. But afterward he took it to pieces and showed me every sybable, so I’d know exactly what I sang, and I do. Don’t you think it’s very remarkably nice?”