strange gesture of submission.

"I have brought it, Mary!" he said. "You shall always have it now.
I--I have learned a little--I know a little, now, of what it means. I
hadn't understanding before, Mary. I meant no unkindness to you."

Abby laughed softly. "Jacques De Arthenay, come here!" she said.
"What do you suppose Maree's thinking of fiddles now? Come here, man
alive, and see your boy!"

But Marie laid one hand softly on the violin, as it lay on the bed
beside her,--the hand that was not patting the baby; then she laid it,
still softly, shyly, on her husband's head as he knelt beside her.
"Jacques, mon ami," she whispered, "you are good! I too have learned.
I was a child always, I knew nothing. See now, I love always Madame,
my friend, and she is mine; but this, this is yours too, and mine too,
our life, our own. Jacques, now we both know, and God, He tell us!
See, the same God, only we did not know the first times. Now, always
we know, and not forget! not forget!"

The baby woke and stirred. The tiny hand was outstretched and touched
its father's hand, and a thrill ran through him from head to foot,
softening the hard grain, melting, changing the fibre of his being.
The husk that in those lonely hours in the forest had been loosened,
broken, now fell away from him, and a new man knelt by the white bed,
silent, gazing from child to wife with eyes more eloquent than any
words could be. The baby's hand rested in his, and Marie laid her own
over it; and Abby Rock rose and went away, closing the door softly
after her.