"If a man's eyes won't see, elder-water can't make him; if he will--ah
bah, glad and good!" Both arms went round Guida, and hugged her
awkwardly.

Her voice came up but once more that morning. As she left Guida in the
doorway, she said with a last effort:

"I will have one bead to pray for you, trejous." She showed her rosary,
and, Huguenot though she was, Guida touched the bead reverently. "And if
there is war, I will have two beads, trejous. A bi'tot--good-bye!"

Guida stood watching her from the doorway, and the last words of the
fisher-wife kept repeating themselves through her brain: "And if there is
war, I will have two beads, trejous."

So, Maitresse Aimable knew she loved Philip! How strange it was that one
should read so truly without words spoken, or through seeing acts which
reveal. She herself seemed to read Maitresse Aimable all at once--read
her by virtue, and in the light, of true love, the primitive and
consuming feeling in the breast of each for a man. Were not words
necessary for speech after all? But here she stopped short suddenly;
for if love might find and read love, why was it she needed speech of
Philip? Why was it her spirit kept beating up against the hedge beyond
which his inner self was, and, unable to see that beyond, needed
reassurance by words, by promises and protestations?

All at once she was angry with herself for thinking thus concerning
Philip. Of course Philip loved her deeply. Had she not seen the light
of true love in his eyes, and felt the arms of love about her? Suddenly