too graceful and beautiful for that. There had been more than
enough for her. But Manuela loved Theophile, you see, and no one
could take his place. Still, she had tossed her head and let her
silvery laughter ring out in the dance, as though she were the
happiest of mortals, and had tripped home with Henri, leaning on
his arm, and looking up into his eyes as though she adored him.

This morning she showed the traces of a sleepless night and an
aching heart as she walked down Marais Street. Across wide St.
Rocque Avenue she hastened. "Two blocks to the river and one
below--" she repeated to herself breathlessly. Then she stood on
the corner gazing about her, until with a final summoning of a
desperate courage she dived through a small wicket gate into a
garden of weed-choked flowers.

There was a hoarse, rusty little bell on the gate that gave
querulous tongue as she pushed it open. The house that sat back
in the yard was little and old and weather-beaten. Its one-story
frame had once been painted, but that was a memory remote and
traditional. A straggling morning-glory strove to conceal its
time-ravaged face. The little walk of broken bits of brick was
reddened carefully, and the one little step was scrupulously
yellow-washed, which denoted that the occupants were cleanly as
well as religious.

Manuela's timid knock was answered by a harsh "Entrez."

It was a small sombre room within, with a bare yellow-washed
floor and ragged curtains at the little window. In a corner was
a diminutive altar draped with threadbare lace. The red glow of