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"Before she left the house she gave me that arrow she used to wear in her hair to hand over to you as a keepsake and also to prevent you, she said, from dreaming of her. This message sounds rather cryptic."

"Oh, I understand perfectly," said Monsieur George. "Don't give me the thing now. Leave it somewhere where I can find it some day when I am alone.  But when you write to her you may tell her that now at last--surer than Mr. Blunt's bullet--the arrow has found its mark.  There will be no more dreaming.  Tell her.  She will understand."

"I don't even know where she is," murmured Mills.

"No, but her man of affairs knows. . . . Tell me, Mills, what will become of her?"

"She will be wasted," said Mills sadly. "She is a most unfortunate creature. Not even poverty could save her now.  She cannot go back to her goats.  Yet who can tell?  She may find something in life. She may!  It won't be love.  She has sacrificed that chance to the integrity of your life--heroically.  Do you remember telling her once that you meant to live your life integrally--oh, you lawless young pedant!  Well, she is gone; but you may be sure that whatever she finds now in life it will not be peace.  You understand me? Not even in a convent."

"She was supremely lovable," said the wounded man, speaking of her as if she were lying dead already on his oppressed heart.

"And elusive," struck in Mills in a low voice. "Some of them are like that. She will never change.  Amid all the shames and shadows of that life there will always lie the ray of her perfect honesty. I don't know about your honesty, but yours will be the easier lot. You will