been. The long tramping, the everlasting trail on false scents, the
mental battling with troubles past and present, had given a fortitude and
vigour to the body beyond what it had ever known. In spite of his
homelessness and pilgrim equipment he looked as though he had a home--
far off. The eyes did not smile; but the lips showed the goodness of
his heart--and its hardness too. Hardness had never been there in the
old days. It was, however, the hardness of resentment, and not of
cruelty. It was not his wife's or his daughter's flight that he
resented, nor yet the loss of all he had, nor the injury done him by
Sebastian Dolores. No, his resentment was against one he had never seen,
but was now soon to see. As his mind came back from the far places where
it had been, and his eyes returned to the concrete world, he saw what the
woman recalled to him. It was--yes, it was Virginie Poucette--the kind
and beautiful Virginie--for her goodness had made him remember her as
beautiful, though indeed she was but comely, like this woman who stayed
him as he walked by the river.

"You are M'sieu' Jean Jacques Barbille?" she said questioningly.

"How did you know?" he asked. . . . "Is Virginie Poucette here?"

"Ah, you knew me from her?" she asked.

"There was something about her--and you have it also--and the look in the
eyes, and then the lips!" he replied.

Certainly they were quite wonderful, luxurious lips, and so shapely too
--like those of Virginie.

"But how did you know I was Jean Jacques Barbille?" he repeated.