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 thing that so much disconcerts a man. He will soon tire of her then. And you will carry him off and punish him—as a woman knows how to punish; and some day, when he is sufficiently unhappy—forgive him. Do you see?—That is what you must do,' and the old lady's eye closed in a clinging leer as she offered her counsel.

'I'm sorry,' Jill muttered. 'You don't understand. I'm not like that.' She stood with her hand on the back of her chair, trying still to think. 'I must set them free, so that nothing shall be spoiled for them. They belong to each other;—but they are not lovers, yet.'

'They are lovers!' cried Madame de Lamouderie, passionately, though the leer still lingered like a smudge of mud across her face. 'I did not think it, either, until to-day. To-day I know. He was here this morning. To paint my portrait!—You have just seen how he painted my portrait this morning!—I am to be their pander, their go-between. That is his little plan. She sent for him to come to her in the garden and I watched them while they walked. I am not to be deceived by quiet. And all was not so quiet. Even though they saw me there, they could not control their fires. Everything—everything had passed between those two. I know the signs.'

Jill heard the thunder rolling and crackling overhead. She stood and listened to it. 'I must go now,' she said, when the reverberations had died away.

'You must go? So be it. I have indeed nothing to