fear of that same cousin who had made himself champion and
avenger of her honor. Everard sought her out, and found her
perishing of want in an attic in the Cour des Miracles some
four months later - eight months after Rotherby's desertion.

In that sordid, wind-swept chamber of Paris' most abandoned
haunt, a son had been born to Antoinette de Maligny two days
before Everard had come upon her. Both were dying; both had
assuredly died within the week but that he came so timely to
her aid. And that aid he rendered like the noble-hearted
gentleman he was. He had contrived to save his fortune from
the wreck of James' kingship, and this was safely invested in
France, in Holland and elsewhere abroad. With a portion of it
he repurchased the chateau and estates of Maligny, which on
the death of Antoinette's father had been seized upon by
creditors.

Thither he sent her and her child - Rotherby's child - making
that noble domain a christening-gift to the boy, for whom he
had stood sponsor at the font. And he did his work of love in
the background. He was the god in the machine; no more. No
single opportunity of thanking him did he afford her. He
effaced himself that she might not see the sorrow she
occasioned him, lest it should increase her own.

For two years she dwelt at Maligny in such peace as the
broken-hearted may know, the little of life that was left her
irradiated by Everard's noble friendship. He wrote to her
from time to time, now from Italy, now from Holland. But he
never came to visit her. A delicacy, which may or may not