It was true. Claire wore a little fluttering aspect of excitement. The colour came and went swiftly in her cheeks, and her eyes had a bright, almost dazzled look, while a small anxious frown kept appearing between her pretty brows. She regarded Jean uncertainly. “Well--yes, it is something,” she acknowledged. “I had a letter from Lady Anne this morning.” Both girls had their _premiers déjeuners_ served to them in their rooms, so that each one’s morning mail was an unknown quantity to the other until they met downstairs. “From Lady Anne?” Jean looked interested. “What does she say?” “She says--she writes------” Here Claire floundered and came to a stop as though uncertain how to proceed, the little puzzled frown deepening between her brows. “Oh, Jean, she had a special reason for writing--some news----” Jean’s arm, hanging slackly at her side, jerked suddenly. Something in Claire’s half-frightened, deprecating air sent a thrill of foreboding through her. Her heart turned to ice within her. “News?” she said in a harsh, strangled voice. “Tell me quick--what is it?... Blaise? He’s not--dead?” Her face, drained of every drop of colour, her suddenly pinched nostrils and eyes stricken with quick fear drew a swift cry from Claire. “_No--no!_” she exclaimed in hasty reassurance. “It’s _good_ news! Good---not bad!” Jean’s taut muscles relaxed and she leaned against the wall as though seeking support. “You frightened me,” she said dully. “Good news? Then it can’t be for me. What is it, Claire? Is Nick”--forcing a smile--“coming out here to see you?” Claire nodded. “Yes, Nick--and Blaise with him.” Jean stared at her. “Blaise--coming here? Oh, but he must not--he mustn’t come!”--in sudden panic. “I couldn’t go through it all again! I couldn’t!” Claire slipped an arm round her. “You won’t have to,” she answered. “Because, Jean-Jean! Blaise has the right to come now. He’s free!” “Free? _Free?_” repeated Jean. “What do you mean! How can he be free?” “Nesta is dead,” said Claire simply. “Dead?” Jean began to laugh a trifle hysterically. “Oh, yes, she’s been ‘dead’ before. But----” “She is really dead this time,” said Claire. “That is why Lady Anne has written--to tell us.” “I can’t believe it!” muttered Jean. “I can’t believe it.” “You _must_ believe it,” insisted Claire quietly. “It is all quite true. She was buried last week in the little churchyard at Coombe Eavie, and Lady Anne writes that Nick and Blaise will be here almost as soon as her letter. They’re on their way now--_now_, Jean! Do you understand?” Her eyes filling with tears, Claire watched the gradual realisation of the amazing truth dawn in Jean’s face. That face so tragically worn, so fined and spiritualised by suffering, glowed with a new light; a glory of unimaginable hope lit itself in the tired golden eyes, and on the half-parted lips there seemed to quiver those kisses which still waited to be claimed.