When the first verdict was given, the father, and mother clung to one another in an ecstasy of relief and thankfulness. Throughout those last terrible days, when every conscious breath had carried with it a prayer, Joan had looked deep into her own soul and beheld with opened eyes the precipice on which she stood. How far, how far she had travelled since those early married days, when, with her first-born in her arms, her highest ambition had been that she should be enabled so to train him that he should grow up, to be, in the words of the beautiful old phrase, "A soldier of Christ!" Of late years she had had many ambitions for her boys, but they had been ambitions of the world, worldly. The old faith had been gradually neglected and allowed to sink into the background of life. In her own strength she had walked, in her own weakness she had failed. Yet now, in default of punishment, goodness and mercy were once more to be her portion! All the nobility in Joan's nature rose up as she pledged herself afresh to a new--a higher life! Jack would live, their boy would live--that was for days the one thought of which the parents were conscious. For the father it was perfect joy, but for the mother there still remained a pang. Only Esmeralda herself ever knew the anguish of grief which she endured on account of her baby's altered looks. Little Jack, with his angel face, his halo of curls, his exquisite, innocent eyes, had been a joy to behold. Waking, sleeping, merry, sad--at one and every moment, of his life the mere sight of him had been as an open sesame to the hearts of those who beheld. The knife turned in his mother's heart at the thought of _Jack_ shorn, scarred, spectacled. She dared not confide her grief to her husband. He would not understand. _Looks_! What could looks matter, when the child had been delivered from death? Joan could see in imagination the expression on his face, hear the shocked tones of his voice; she would not betray her feelings and risk a break of the new, sweet understanding between them. All men were alike. There were occasions when only another woman could understand. Joan went upstairs to the empty nursery and found Marie weeping in her chair. "_Petite lapin! Petite cherie! Petite ange_! Comfort thyself, Madame," she sobbed, "we can have glasses like the young American--she who visited Madame last year. No rims hardly to be observed! And the hair--that will grow--of a surety it will grow. A little long upon the forehead, and _voila_! The scar is hid. ... A little care, Madame, a little patience, and he will be once more our _petit amour_!" "Marie," said her mistress firmly, "looks are a secondary affair. We ought to be too thankful to _think_ of looks!" "_C'est vrai_, Madame," replied Marie demurely, "_C'est vrai_," and Joan Hilliard went back to her room with a lightened heart, and determined to write at once to town to ask particulars concerning rimless spectacles.