“Have you not always his memory with you? What remains of Marcel is but his earthly husk.” “Ah, yes!” agreed Madame Guibert. She was thinking of his immortal soul. Marcel’s sister yielded. But Jean saw the tears running down her cheeks. “He was our pride--and my life,” she sighed; and in a lower voice she added: “He knew that long ago.” “God willed it so,” said his mother. “We do not understand His plans. He seems so cruel sometimes that we are tempted to rebel. But His goodness is infinite.” Jean, much affected, took her wrinkled, trembling hand in his own and, with the same respect which Marcel used to show, he kissed it reverently. He stood up and, facing the two women as they gazed at him, paid a last tribute to the dead, not without hope that he might help Paule, less resigned and more discouraged than her mother. “His short life was complete. By his will power and his courage he has set us an example. Far from pitying him, should we not envy him? We must honor the dead, but we must have faith in life!” Paule turned on Jean those dark eyes of hers, into which the light was coming back. A new strength seemed to flow to her from him. Could this be the frivolous young officer who used to flirt with girls of the lighter kind? In her memory of him she had cherished a contemptuous kindness for him, which perhaps concealed an unavowed vexation at his conduct. In her pride she had thought herself strong. She was now discovering that, if she wished to be worthy of her own esteem and Jean’s, she must pluck relentlessly from her heart all that bitterness and rebellion wherewith it abounded as the woods in winter with dead leaves. “You are not leaving us already?” asked Madame Guibert timidly. Jean, to console her, spoke to her of all the ties which still united her to life. They talked about her other children; about her daughter Marguerite, the nun in Paris, the nurse of the sick; of her sons making a new France in far-off lands. “How many children has Étienne?” he asked. “He expects the third. I don’t know them, and yet I love them. Oh, I cherish them as the last joys that God has given me. They are called Maurice and Françoise. Did you know that?” “Oh, yes,” said Jean with a smile. “Those are my husband’s name and mine. They are the blessing of our race. They are going to call the new one Marcel.” “And if it is a girl?” “Still Marcelle. Here is the photograph of the two elder ones.” Already she regarded as living the child that was to come. “Aren’t they lovely?” said Paule, coming nearer to look at her nephew and niece. “Yes, the little girl is very like you. She has your dark eyes.” “She will be much prettier.” “I don’t think so,” answered the young man, giving back the portrait to Madame Guibert. And he added with that beautiful smile which gave his face such a youthful look: “Are you not pretty enough? You are hard to please!”