She was struck by this rigid tone, and pressing the button of the electric light, beheld her husband looking as if stricken with a sudden old age, so pale and hollow-eyed that she felt at once a presentiment of danger. “Francis,” she begged of him, “there is something else that you’re hiding from me. Am I not your comrade as I used to be, from whom you have no secrets?” He moved nearer toward the bed. “Why no, dear wife, there’s nothing else. Isn’t our son’s desertion of us enough?” Sitting up again, her arms stretched out, she only entreated him the more. “I can read in your look some terrible menace that hangs over us. Don’t spare me as you did last night. Speak. I shall be brave.” “You are exciting yourself needlessly. There’s nothing.” “I swear to you that I shall have the courage to bear it. Don’t you believe me?” “Valentine, calm yourself.” “Wait, you shall believe me.” And joining her hands, the aged woman on her bed of pain called aloud to her God for help. In her pale and emaciated face, through which the pulse of life moved so feebly, her eyes flashed with an ardent flame. “Valentine,” he said softly. She turned toward him as if transfigured. “Now,” she said, “now speak. I can bear all. Is he dead?” “Oh, no!” Her heart had given the same cry as his. Conquered by this faith that animated her, he confided to her the terrible accusation that had attainted their flesh and blood. She thrust it from her indignantly. “It’s not true. Our son is not a thief.” “No, but for every one else he is.” “What of that, if it is not true? And that I know, I’m sure of it.” He cut her short with a quick gesture, dwelling upon the disaster: “He has brought disgrace on us.” It was the crime against his race, head of the family as he was, that he condemned, while the Christian woman thought only of her boy’s heart. “God will not abandon us,” she declared solemnly. As she uttered these single words of hope Margaret entered, much upset and evidently battling with her dismay. She looked at her father and mother, saw them both suffering there with the same sorrow, and like a stream that breaks its barriers her self-restraint gave way in a burst of tears. Mrs. Roquevillard drew her to her heart. “Come to me,” she said. “Who has been hurting you?” her father demanded. She was feverish with excitement, but controlled her distress to make some explanation. “People are insulting us,” she began. “Who?”