her childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed her--she had
imagination.

"His mother died in my arms in Winnipeg," she said abruptly at last. "I'm
glad I was some comfort to her. You see, it all came through me--I was so
young and spoiled and silly--John Marcey's death, her death, and his long
years in prison. Even then I knew better than to set the one against the
other. Must a child not be responsible? I was--I am!"

"And so you punish yourself?"

"It was terrible for me--even as a child. I said that I could never
forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came
something else."

"You saw him, there amie?"

"I saw him--so changed, so quiet, so much older--all grey at the temples.
At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of the
thing--to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn--" She
paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre.

"It is safe; I am silent," he said.

"That I might learn to bear--him," she continued.

"Is he still--" Pierre paused.

She spoke up quickly. "Oh no, he has been free two years."