“Jeanne, what do you know about being in love?” “Why shouldn’t I know? I’m not a little girl any more.” Thereupon Miss Sassenay gave a poke to her hat, which was losing its balance on her blonde hair, verified the curls that fell over her forehead, and assumed an air of great detachment, to hide her blushing, as she asked: “He doesn’t love that bad woman any more, does he?” “Maurice? I don’t believe so.” “Are you sure?” “He never speaks of her.” “She’s never seen him again?” “No.” “So much the better. I detest her. In the first place, she wasn’t so good-looking as all that. Fine eyes, yes, but she used them a little too much. And her smiles, and her sly looks, and her grimaces! She was always balancing her head, and craning her neck, and heaving her shoulders and wriggling her hips.” She got out of her chair quickly and walked across the room in imitation of Mrs. Frasne, caricaturing the gestures and the constant play of movement by which the woman’s inner restlessness was betrayed. “Jeanne, please stop,” cried Margaret. “No, no,” continued the girl, fairly launched now. “I tell you brunettes can’t be compared with blondes, for colouring or for grace either. You, Margaret, with your chestnut hair, have the beauty of them all, but you don’t do anything to help yourself.... And then, I detest her anyway....” “Detest whom, Jeanne?” “Mrs. Frasne, of course. She’s a fatal woman, and brings bad luck. Your brother has been well punished. She has made him unhappy. She didn’t love him. She’s the one they should have put in jail. As for your brother, they’ll acquit him. You know papa and mamma are for him. Papa looked glum about it at first, but I scolded him. I should have liked to go and see the acquittal. You must congratulate him for me. It must be fine to be acquitted.” She was babbling on without stopping. Margaret gently interrupted her. “Will you pray with me, Jeanne?” she asked. “If you wish.” The two girls knelt side by side. But scarcely had they begun their orisons before some one knocked at the door. “It’s the postman,” said the maid, handing some letters to Margaret. “Will you permit me?” the latter asked of her companion. “It was Hubert’s day.... Oh, a letter from him.... I half expected one.” With trembling hands she unsealed the envelope, which was postmarked from the Soudan. From the other side of the gates of Death the young officer was taking his part in the family drama. There are few sensations so poignant as that of receiving tidings from those who are no more. Margaret, whose shy patience had hitherto been like calm, let a long moan escape her as she read. Jeanne, discreet and much moved herself, did not dare console her. By her own force of will the girl controlled herself. This was not the time to be weak or give way. Had not her father shown her the proper way to act? “Hubert!” she murmured. She seemed to hesitate a moment what to do. “I must--I think I must go to the court-house, at once,” she said.