CHAPTER VII.

LOOKING BACK.

The half of a life! for so Marie counted the loss of her violin. She
never spoke of this--to whom should she speak? In her husband's eyes
it was a thing accursed, she knew. She almost hoped he had forgotten
about the precious treasure that lay so quietly in some dark nook in
the lonely garret; for as long as he did not think of it, it was safe
there, and she should not feel that terrible anguish that had seemed to
rend body and soul when she saw him lay the violin across his knee to
break it. And Abby came not, and gave no sign; and there was no one
else.

She saw little of the neighbours at first. The women looked rather
askance at her, and thought her little better than a fool, even if she
had contrived to make one of Jacques De Arthenay. She never seemed to
understand their talk, and had a way of looking past them, as if
unaware of their presence, that was disconcerting, when one thought
well of oneself. But Marie was not a fool, only a child; and she did
not look at the women simply because she was not thinking of them.
With the children, however, it was different Marie felt that she would
have a great deal to say to the children, if only she had the half of
her that could talk to them. Ah, how she would speak, with Madame on
her arm! What wonders she could tell them, of fairies and witches, of
flowers that sang and birds that danced! But this other part of her