floating away into a blind distance. She heard, however, the quick
breathing of the Seigneur beside her, and it called her back to an active
and necessary confidence.

With a smile she received the address, and, turning, handed it to Louis,
smiling at him too with a winning duplicity, for which she might never
have to ask forgiveness in this world or the next. Then she turned and
spoke. Eloquently, simply, she gave out her thanks for the gift of
silver and the greater gift of kind words; and said that in her quiet
life, apart from that active world of the stage, where sorrow and sordid
experience went hand in hand with song, where the delights of home were
sacrificed to the applause of the world, she would cherish their gift as
a reward that she might have earned, had she chosen the public instead
of the private way of life. They had told her of the paths of glory,
but she was walking the homeward way.

Thus deftly, and without strain, and with an air of happiness even, did
she set aside the words and the appeal which had created a storm in her
soul. A few moments afterwards, as the old house rang to the laughter of
old and young, with dancing well begun, no one would have thought that
the Manor of Pontiac was not the home of peace and joy. Even Louis
himself, who had had his moments of torture and suspicion when the appeal
was read, was now in a kind of happy reaction. He moved about among the
guests with less abstraction and more cheerfulness than he had shown for
months. He carried in his hand the address which Madelinette had handed
him. Again and again he showed it to eager guests.

Suddenly, as he was about to fold it up for the last time and carry it to
the library, he saw the name of George Fournel among the signatures.
Stunned, dumfounded, he left the room. George Fournel, whom he had tried