to tell you--" she knelt at the bedside, her lips moved piteously.
"Try to understand, little one, she is gone--neither you nor I can
find her--"

"Nor the Major?" asked Felicia incredulously.

"The Major least of all," said Margot firmly. "She is not--"

"Not what?" demanded Felicia..

She was sitting on the edge of the bed now looking very little in the
ancient dressing gown.

"She is not living any more," sighed Margot.

There was a long pause, a pause in which the drone of Piqueur's voice,
still singing Maitre Guedron's old song, floated through the open
casement.

"Not living?" questioned Felicia, her eyes widening with frightened--
comprehension--"Oh! Oh!" her voice rose tempestuously, angrily, "You
shall not say such dreadful things! They are not true! The Major said
we should come to this house in the Woods, he said--" she paused, her
mind groped back over the years.

The rising tide of her anger swept her fear that this strange woman
was telling the truth farther and farther out of her thoughts. She
rose, absurdly majestic as she steadied herself with one slender arm
against the quaint carved post of the bed. She pointed toward the
doorway.