pains to adorn her wasted self, and wore paint on her cheeks; but
often while she walked on the upper terrace with the children,
Annette's wrinkled face would peer out from between the savin trees by
the pump. The old woman would forget her work, and stand with wet
linen in her hands, scarce able to keep back her tears at the sight of
Mme. Willemsens, so little like the enchanting woman she once had
been.

The pretty house itself, once so gay and bright, looked melancholy; it
was a very quiet house now, and the family seldom left it, for the
walk to the bridge was too great an effort for Mme. Willemsens. Louis
had almost identified himself, as it were, with his mother, and with
his suddenly developed powers of imagination he saw the weariness and
exhaustion under the red color, and constantly found reasons for
taking some shorter walk.

So happy couples coming to Saint-Cyr, then the Petite Courtille of
Tours, and knots of folk out for their evening walk along the "dike,"
saw a pale, thin figure dressed in black, a woman with a worn yet
bright face, gliding like a shadow along the terraces. Great suffering
cannot be concealed. The vinedresser's household had grown quiet also.
Sometimes the laborer and his wife and children were gathered about
the door of their cottage, while Annette was washing linen at the
well-head, and Mme. Willemsens and the children sat in the
summer-house, and there was not the faintest sound in those gardens gay
with flowers. Unknown to Mme. Willemsens, all eyes grew pitiful at the
sight of her, she was so good, so thoughtful, so dignified with those
with whom she came in contact.

And as for her.--When the autumn days came on, days so sunny and