boiling soap, with a gentle pity, and of Jean with hot
disdain. What had Jean to do with it? The prince was
her own lover, as her gloves were her own.

But indeed, the prince and love were but shadows on the
far sky line to the little girl; the real things were her
work and her Bible, and George's mother talking to her.
She often traced remembered expressions on Mrs.
Waldeaux's face; the gayety, the sympathy, a strange
foreboding in the eyes. Finer meanings, surely, than any
in the features of these immortal insipid Madonnas!

Sometimes Lucy could not decide whether she had seen
these meanings on Frances Waldeaux's face, or on her
son's.

She sewed until late in the afternoon. There came a tap
at the door. She opened it, and there stood Mrs.
Waldeaux, wrapped in a heavy cloak. Lucy jumped at her,
trembling, and hugged her.

"Oh, come in! Come in!" she cried shrilly. "I have just
been thinking of you and talking to you!"

Frances laughed, bewildered. "Oh, it is Miss
Dunbar? The man sent me here by mistake to wait. Miss
Vance is out, he said."

"Yes, I suppose so. But I--I am here." Lucy threw her
arms around her again, laying her head down on her