“They have reached the waterfall at Coux now.... O God!” As she was crossing the bridge over the muddy waters of the Leysse she stopped and leaned on the parapet to take breath. At that moment she heard someone call. “Madame Guibert,” said the voice, “will you allow me to come with you?” It was Madame de Marthenay, who had watched her from the station, hesitating between the wish to help her, according to the promise she had made to Paule, and the fear of breaking in upon her absorbing sorrow. Seeing her now in distress, she came forward. Madame Guibert was so tired that she took the arm offered to her. In her sorrow she hardly spoke during the walk home. Alice, with tactful delicacy, tried to console her in talking of the joy her children would have when they saw her again. On the doorstep Paule’s mother thanked her gratefully. “But I am going to help you upstairs,” Madame de Marthenay insisted. “You are very kind. Thank you very much.” And when they were at the head of the stairs she added: “Come in for a minute. You must rest a little. I leaned very heavily on your arm along the road.” The poor weary eyes in their appeal laid bare the tragedy of the desolate home. “I shall be very glad,” said Alice, moved to deep sympathy as she followed the old lady into a bedroom, changed by means of a screen into a little sitting-room by day. Marie the maid, still overwhelmed by “Mademoiselle’s” departure, brought in a telegram. “Here is a message,” she said, with a hostile glance at the elegant Madame de Marthenay. With difficulty, and shaking all over, Madame Guibert tore open the envelope. She could never open one of those little blue papers without trembling for they might have a message of death in them. But her face cleared immediately. As she read, Alice was looking round her mechanically at the simple and modest, almost conventional, furniture. Her eyes fell on the enlarged photograph of Marcel. She went up to it. The Commander wore his disdainful, impassive air in the picture, which dated from his return from the Sahara. Madame Guibert turned round and saw her contemplating her son’s photograph. She regretted having brought her into the room. But as she went up to her, Alice looked at her and burst into tears. “What is the matter?” asked Madame Guibert. “Oh! Madame, Madame!” cried the young woman, and she sobbed out her secret to Marcel’s mother. “I loved him! If only you knew how I loved him!” In profound pity, Madame Guibert gazed on the woman who had given her son his distaste for life. She knew from Paule that at the time of Marcel’s death the photograph of a little girl had been found in the breast-pocket of his tunic. Of a “little girl” indeed! How true it was that he had set his affections on a child. “Poor little one,” she said, stroking Alice’s cheek as she sat drooping in a chair. In face of this sorrow waiting to be consoled, she forgot her own misery and immediately recovered her presence of mind and her courage.