Now Pauline Montier was a good Christian woman, and various words of
holy utterance began herewith to trouble her. And from a by no means
tranquil musing over them, she began to ask herself, What, after all,
was home? Was happiness indeed dependent on locality when the heart of
love was hers? Could she not give up so little as a house, in order to
secure the comfort of a son of misfortune,--a solitary man,--a dying
prisoner? What she would not give up freely might any day be taken from
her. If fire did not destroy it, the government, which took delight in
interference, might see fit to order that the house they occupied
should be used again for the original purpose of storage.

And then the discomforts of the prison began to appear very
questionable. She remembered that Joan Laval was, as Adolphus hinted,
weakly, nervous, 'frightened at her own shadow,'--a woman who had
never, for any single day of her life, lived with a lofty purpose,--a
cumberer of the ground, who could only cast a shadow.

She perceived that they would be close to the flower-garden; a minute's
walk would lead them to the pleasant woods,--and Pauline Montier always
loved the woods.

Indeed, when she began to take this ground, the first steps of
occupation alone could be timid or doubtful. After that, her humanity,
her sympathy, her confidence in her husband and daughter, drew the
woman on, till she forgot how difficult the first steps had been.

She surprised both husband and daughter by saying to Adolphus, the
moment she came to her conclusion, that he had better make inquiry of
Laval whether he had signified his intention to resign, and forthwith
seek the appointment from the Governor of the island.