OUR SATURDAY STORY.

Auckland Star, Volume XLV, Issue 15, 17 January 1914, Page 18

OUR SATURDAY STORY.

(All Rights Reserved.)

a THE HERITAGE OF LUCILLE RIVERS.

(By ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.)

Lt \vas Mademoiselle de Fontaine who told mc all about Lucille Rivers—describiiii; the girl so vividly that when I closed my eyes I could almost see the slim tall young creature with her soft pale yellow hair aud licr eyes that were as blue as midsummer skit-.-, aud her delicate old world grace. We were foHow-boaxders, Mademoiselle and myself, staying at a quaint old house dowu in Kentucky, awl Mademoiselle, who was taking a brief summer holiday—she was playing the part of govexnante to some wealthy New l'ork family—trying to teach the girls muuners and to give them a smart French accent—.was real nice to mc, a lonely little school mann, an' we chummed up together. I was afraid of her first of all, I must admit. She had such a proud fine old face, and she wore her grey hair brushed straight off her forehead, just like one of those marquises you see in pictures. Her hands were heauti'fnUy shaped, and testified to her blue blood, and she had the finest feet I ever saw. She dTessed very simply, but she wore a peal lovely old lace scarf over her shoulders in the evening. We'd sit together on the ipiazza at nights. Mademoiselle talking, 1 "busy with my sewing, an' she told mc ever so m-any stories about Lucille Rivers; 6eemed as if she couldn't get Lucille out of foer ibead. An" I didn't wonder at that either when I'd heard ail that Mademoiselle had to tell me—l didn't wonder a hit.

Lucille was an orphan, and t«v guardians footed after her —a Colonel Mnrrlton and anotli-er gentleman—Sir Ilenrry Cobton, but it was Mademoiselle de Fontaine who had the real charge of the beautiful young ißnglfeli girl, poor Lucille, who lived the ■life of an imprisoned princess. For she "had a lovely old (house of her own down in Cornwall, set in large grounds, hut she was never allowed to go outside her own rp_rk railings, or to' know any of her neighfbonrs.

"I guess I never heard such a queer state of things as that." I remarked to Mademoiselle as we ==at chatting on the piazza, cur. rooking chairs drawn up close -together, and a big kind harvest moon shining down upon us and silvering the whole countryside.

'That was just wtat I thought, Maisie," Mademoiselle answered in iher pretty clear voice. (My name's -Maisie—iMaisie Brown, air" I come from Xew "England.) "I co4—d hardly realise that Lucille's guardians were serious when they told mc .before I /went down to CN'orth Towers that, I must never allow my yonng- charge—-Lucille -was only sixteen, you know—to leave her own grounds or talk to any strangers; It seemed such an impossible state of things, did it not? But when I remonstrated wlfih the two gentlemen they told mc something —bout Lucille which inclined mc to believe that perhaps they "were acting wisely after aril. Only it did see-m hard, did it not, ma cherie, to keep suc-h a lovely young creature a close prisoner? For vrben 1 went down to North Towers Lucille was only just sixteen, and, imagine it, since she was a little child she had never been outside her own grounds!"

"It sounds real dreadiful," I answered, and I thought of that -beautiful poem, "The Lady of Shalott," and Che fairy lady on whom a curse rested if she ever tried to mix with tie gay glittering world, an' it seemed to mc that Lucille was jnst such another iherolne, an* I declare -the- tears came right into my eyes. "Yet Lucille was fairly happy," Mademoiselle murmured thoughtfully. "She had her horse to ride, and she could ride for miles over her own land, for she was the heiress, as I think I have toll yon, to greet jessessions. She was also fond of beOat and swimming, and a path led down from North Towers straight to the shore, and, of course, the grounds anil gardens were beautiful—a dream. There was a rose garden, Maisie—such a rose parden! -del!—l can smell the perfume of those roses stilL" "And the house itself. Was the honse real nice inside?" *-Nice?" Mademoiselle de Fontaine Entiled—a faint flickering smile. "It was a house ot charm—of dignity—of repose. Many dead hands had helped to make it beautiful—it was the home of successive generations, you see. ma cherie. There •was a great deal of finely carved black ©ai about, and some good china—old •Jessert services and tea sets—the gold •slightly faded—the flowers a little blurred by constant usage in the past. Family portraits hung in tho diningroom—a goodly row—smiling cavaliers who may bare fought at Naseby—staid Tory squires In periwigs—proud beauties, patched and powdered, stiff in their brocade gowns and satin sacques. The drawingroom boasted a. harpsichord, and the chairs were all -jexirked. In silk embroidery, and there were rtd lacquer cabinets looted in the se*venteent_ century by some dead and gone Rivers on each side of the wide old-fashioned fireplace. Oh, it was a lovely, lovely room, and the bedrooms rwere just as delightful, for the windows an had lattice panes, and the four post bedsteads had the most wonderful sets of hangings. Lucille's bedchamber was called the tapestry room because of the tapestry aras that went round the walls, and I used to think that my charge looked exactly like a lily—a slim, white lHy—when I said good night to her at night, for the dark background' of the tapestry seemed to make her clear beanty more evident-—her slender grace, and her yellow hair—hair a 6 soft aud fine as floss Bilk—used to fan over her shoulders in gleaming waves." Mademoiselle's eyes glowed as she spoke of the fair Lucille, then she bent towards mc in the moonlight. "She was so clever, too. She sang like an angel, and .she played the piano beautifully—there was music in her- heart I always told her—also Lucille was a great reader. She used to spend hours in the big library, or she would take a book with her if it was summer and read quietly in the woods by herself; and indeed— indeed—Maisie, I tried my best to awaken lofty ideas and high ideals in this sweet girl's mind. I -laid myself out to strengthen her character—l endeavoured to make her understand that there is such a thing as the law of compensation and that men and women can make themselves- masters of their destinies." "And she listened to you?" "Tes, she listened most sweetly, but as the slow years c-spt by and the child of sixteen blossomed and ripened into the girl of twenty, I saw that Lucille was beginning to chafe sorely against the life she was leading. She longed to call on her neighbours and make friends with them. It was absurd of her two guardians,, she argued; not to allow her to know people—cruel; but. never mind— when she attained her majority and became her own mlßtress.she..would very soon alter that rtio woeld mto the great work! nn '■•*•*•-* .<*<***<* friends. full ot plang . Tor the fut^ ,**_,_!•.__._«,_,, were tJwSS-

I round the World together—Lucille and I — I and we could start on our travels on Lucille's twenty-first birthday. 1 used to -listen to all these plans and say nothing, for I knew that ou Lucille's twenty-first birthday her guardians had a communication to make to her, and I wondered "if my darling charge would take It bravely or the reverse. I prayed for her—night after night I prayed, but I prayed—and therein lay my fault perhaps—that my child should be happy—l forgot to ask Ie bon Dieu to make her strong and courageous." Mademoiselle paused a 6econd. and I thought how fine her old face looked in the moonlight, but how terribly s*d. I said nothing, however. I guess I sat still and waited for her to go ou speaking, which at last she did. "One day, jast when it wanted four months to Lucille's twentieth birthday, 1 had the misfortune to sprain my ankle badly, and I had to keep to the honse in consequence, and to my couch. It was early in May—such a warm, beautiful May —and I did not like to keep Lucille in-' doors; but I thought sometimes that she left mc a great deal to myself—more than she should have done—for she stopped in the woods all day. I did not like to scold her, however, for her discontented mood had completely vanished—it seemed as if the wise woods had driven it away, for Lucille would return from these long solitary rambles—her face wreathed In smiles —her eyes soft and shining—her cheeks tinted to the most lovely bloom—and I— oh, the imbecile I was!—never realised that an Enchanter had been at work—that my charge had been walking in love's land, and had fallen completely under love's spell.'' Mademoiselle sighed. "I ought to have guessed, perhaps—l know the guardians blamed mc bitterly enough afterwards; but how was I to imagine that a fellow countryman of yours, Maisie—a rich young American cruising in his own yacht round the Cornish coast and spending a few days at the little Inn which was situated only a mile from North Towers—right at the edge of the long, straggling fisher village—would have dared to trespass Into the grounds of North Towers? But Mr. Randolph had heard all sorts of stories about Lucilie from his garrulous old landlord, and was determined to catch sight of the beautiful young girl who led tbe life of an imprisoned princess. He was a light-hearted young man, and the tales he had heard had fired his curiosity, but when he saw Lucille as she sat reading at the foot of the huge beech tree —why, he fell as suddenly in love as Jacob fell in love with Itachel when he came upon her drawing water at her father's well; it was yet another case of love at first sight—love on both sides."' •Mademoiselle hesitated, then drew Iter lace shawl a little closer about her shoulders. "I cannot blame Lucille. It was her time to love, and though she knew how angry her guardians would be when they found out about. the stolen meetings that were taking place in rhe dark green woods that belted North Towers, she determined to risk the displeasure of the two old men and follow the dictates of her hot young heart. Gilliam Randolph was very handsome, I must tell you, my cherie—tall and strong and dark, with a clever, clear-cut face " "I guess I know the type," I Interrupted. It was getting quite dark on the piazza— seemed as if the moon was gradually becoming hidden by clouds, an.' maybe it was the soft dusk that hung over everything that made mc feel a craving for the company of a young fellow that I knew well at home—Jabez Martin—the sou of old Deacon Martin. We are to be married nest fall, an' he's real splendid, an' I reckon I'd have met him in a wood in spite of fifty guardians —so I was downright in sympathy with Lucille ißdvers, for Jnbez Is tall an' strong and dark

"My poor Lrfieille."- Mademoiselle's voice got somehow full of tears, "let do you know, Maisie, I am sometimes glad that all happened as it did happen —that my little Lucille 'had her love dream, for she must have been happy—happy—during the long month when I lay on my conch in the drawingroom and Lucille walked with love in the green wood. I know a wonderful look came over her face —a look that puzzled mc strangely, and smiles played constantly arbout her lips, and the 'blue in her eyes deepened—deepened."

Mademoiselle hesitated, then she turned to mc in the dim darkness and put a hand on my arm; I could feel tne soft emotional trembling of her cold fingers.

"Shall I go on, ma cherie —shall I finisrh the story? 'Shall I tell how Lucille came tripping to mc one brJllia'nt June afternoon her cheeks gtowrng like the Tose, aiid whispered that she had a confession to make? She held out her left hand, and I caught the glitter of a • diamond ring upon her third finger, and my heart sank Into my shoes, for what had the child .beenn arbout. I asked myself—who had given her that half-hoop of diamonds?

•' 'Lucille!' I cried, 'Lucille! "What folly is iihis? Tell mc what you mean.'"

'*She faltered for a second, then she fell on her knees by the side of my co*hah and -id her crimson cheeks upon my lap, whispering the whole story, telling mc how she and you-og Gilliam Randolph had been meeting every dray for the last month—meeting by stealth in tfhe Woods, and now love had made Lucille so cold that she actually •begged mc to see Mr- -Randolph—"this young man whom she had promised to marry.

"I was very angry with her—at least as angry as anyone could 'be -with Lucille, and I toW la petite at once that she had been •behaving shamefully Troth by her guardians and by myself, the gouvernan.te under w*hose charge she had been put, but Lucille wars not at all penitent—_rat was the ! tro-bde of it. She would not see _iat she had done anything wrong. She laugihed in my face, and told mc that I must not be silly, that it was foolish of ■mc to scold her. Her guardians were two silly old men—two antiquated old fossils—a_d they did not understand what it meruit to be yonng and alive. See how absurdly they (had behaved, sfoe argued, in not allowing her to mix with her neighbours, in condeanrning her to lead the life oi an imprisoned princess. Why, Gil'lratn, said he had never hend such nonsense an nil his life— that the treatment her guardians had meted out to Lucille savou-red of the Middle Ages —and of course !he had some reason to think so, this fine handsome young American. | But I, who knew the real reason that Lucille's .guardians had had in keeping •her apart from the world, shook my head and wondered what I ought to say and do. One thing was very .plain, however, the two old gentlemen must be communicated: with at once, and I told iLoeille as much.

" 'Of -course.' She nodded her bead—the head brimming over with soft yellow curls. 'It is just what we want —GiUiam and L We desire to have our engagement acknowledged. Besides, my guardians can finnothing to object to In Gilliam. He is a very rich man—he has got about eight thousand a year, so he conld afford to marry mc if I hadn't a farthing, couldn't he?—a:nd if my guardians are disagreeable and refuse to allow -mc any of my money till I am twenty-one—.well,- what does it ■matter? GHHam _as got enough for us both ,—in fact Us one regret Is that lam not a poor. girl. He would have loved it, be says, if I had been: a beggar maid—he would **ye. liked to give tme everything,, everyi ' . > .

"I could quite believe it, for as Lucille stood up in the wide old-fashioned drawling room—for she had sprung to her feet ,'by now—she looked so lovely that I don't think any man in the world could have helped being impressed by her beauty at that moment; and she wlas.so full of joy— so radiantly happy—that "was the most tragic .part of it —leucine's radiant happiness. " ' Locille." I eailed her to mc and I put my arms atra-ut (her, and I hushed her -to my ibreast as I would have hashed a child of m-y own. 'I do not think your guardians will consent to .this engagement. I—l do not think they will wish you to marry Gilliam Randolph.'

" 'And -why not.' A note of challenge came into her voice as she asked the question. Her eyes glittered dangerously. 'What possible objection can my guardians offer to ■my engagement? Besides, it doesn't matter-: we should shmpiy refuse to listen to them—Gilliam and L He is coming to dine here to-night. I am going to acknowledge him before the whole world as my future husband. lam not going to be treated liko a child by my guardians any longer—l have made up my mind on that point, Mademoiselle—l intend to break free from my eKs!.' "She spoke with such decision—such intent determination, that I tremtoied, and I realLsed that I must tell Lucille the truth— and yet, how I dreaded it—oh, how I dreaded it!" Mademoiselle paused and drew a deep, deep breath, and I could hear the loud beating of her heart. It was quite dark on the piazza -by now, a-nd I was glad. What had to be told was best told in the dark. "Ah, Malsie, it was terrible —terrible— telling Lucille the truth—lnforming my poor child that the heritage which her forbears had bequeathed to her was a cursed heritage—a fatal heritage, for though the lot had fallen to her in fair ground as far as her actual possessions went, a doom hung over her head. She was one of those v\!ho have no right to marry; there was a taint in her blood, Maisie—the taint of madness. Her mother had died insane, and so had her grandmother and her greatgrandmother before her, and therefore it would be wrong—nay, more—it would be criminal of Lucille to marry—it would be ■■i. sin.

"I tola her this as gently as I could, but I felt her young body stiffen in my arms, and Lucille gave a shrill, fierce cry, and her face changed as I looked at her, and it was no longer the face of a lovely laughing girl—a girl who had been walking hand In hand with love—it was the face of a stricken woman. She began to moan, Maisie, and all the colour went out of her cheeks and the light died out of her eyes, and she crouched down at my feet till her fair hair trailed the ground, and I, alas conld do nothing to comfort her.

" 'I see now why my guardians have shut mc up in this house,' she moaned out at last, 'and why they have never allowed mc to make friends with young people of my own age. They realised that I was a sort of leper; but oh, why didn't they tell mc the truth, or let you tell mc the truth years ago, Mademoiselle? It wouldn't have come so hard upon mc as it comes now.'

" 'My darling—my darling!' I bent over my poor Lucille and stroked her soft hair. 'Your guardians intended to tell you about the unhappy taint in your blood when you were twenty-one—they didn't want to cloud your youth with the news; and, my child— though you may have to give young Gilliam up, there may bo yet many days and years of happiness in store for you. You are young, Lucille, and everything except love is in your grasp. You can travel and see the world—you can mix freely with your fellows now that you know what you know—only you must never marry.*

" 'Only I must never marry!' Lucille repeated the words bitterly—brokenly, and she suddenly began to langh, and her laughter was wild aud terrible. "It's too late to tell mc that—it's too late, for Gilliam and I were so afraid that my gnardlans might make trouble aud endeavour to part us from each other till I was twenty-one, that we were married this morning—married by special license. "We thought it would be safer to get married first and then confess that we had been meeting each other afterwards, so that no one would be able to part us or come between us. But of course,'—Lucille flushed—'we did not intend to go away on our honeymoon till my gnardians had been acquainted with the news of our marriage, and had mora or less given their consent.' Lucille paused. 'We motored to a town a good many miles from here, and we were married in a little grey church— married till death should us part—only I wanted to break the news gradually to you, Mademoiselle—not to blurt the truth out at once. And now—now—what are we going to do what can we do?'

"She faced mc with a blank look l n her eyes. -She was trembling from head to foot. It was terrible to see how grey she looked—my beautiful flower-like Lucille.

" 'Married!' I repeated the word dully, 'Oh, Lucille—Lucille—married!"

" 'Yes, and Gilliam is coming round to dinner this evening. I told him that I would have broken the uews to you by then, and that I knew you would be gladreally glad—that I was going to be so happy; and now what am I going to say to him when he comes?—oh, Mademoiselle, for the love of God tell mc what am I going to say?"

"I looked at Lucille steadily for a few seconds, and her face was -the face of a soul in pain—in torment-

" 'Oh, my child!' I cried pitifully at last. 'What is there to say—what is there to tell this husband of yours but the truth? And you must never forget—never—i n the future — that a .barrier lies between yon—a terrible barrier. Lucille, you have <no right to bring children Into the world to inherit your heritage; you understand that, ma petite, do you not?—you are a woman, and you -realise It. " 'Tes, D understand it well enough.' "Lucille eat down in. a big chair and let her slim white hands sink helplessly into her lap, and she was quite silent for a minute or two, then she suddenly looked np, and there was more light in her eyes.

" 'I shall say nothing to-night,' she said —'nothing. We will have one happy evening, Gilliam and I, and you will not say anything either, Mademoiselle, for the sake of your poor Lucille. To-morrow oh, to-morrow—when Gilliam comes round again you must tell him the truth—but yon will have to tell him—not mc; I—l simply shouldn't have the courage. He talks of going up to London to see my gnrdians tomorrow—to inform them that we are married; he wishes to make settlements upon mc, and all that.'

"She paused a second, a faint smile playing about her lips—a curiously pathetic smile.

" 'Ton will let us be happy to-night, will you not. Mademoiselle?. It is all I ask of my dear, dear gouvernarnte—this one fete day. To-morrow—to-morrow—Gilliam shall be told the truth—he must realise that it would be best and wisest that our paths should divide. Perhaps the lawyers will even see a way to break the marriage bond for us—for I don't want to he a drag on Gilliam's life in the future—a thorn in his side. Bat, oh. let us be happy to-night!*

"What could. I say to Lncille—how.could I withstand her pleading? I yielded at qnce, and I promised her that .Gilliam Randolph, should, _i_e- iwtt__nsHt_st-_J__t^an_.

I that I would not reproach the young m-m I "for the runaway marriage. Yes, the chll- ! dren should be happy together for one evening, I told myself—they should hay« «their fete—these two poor unhappy children. . ..

"Lucille-kissed mc and clung to mc, and she gave an odd little langh.

" "See—l am not going to cry till tomorrow,' she exclaimed. 'I intend to forget all that you have told mc and live to the present for a few hours. And* now, Mademoiselle, will yon see to things for mc. The best china is to be used to-night —the china service that belonged to my great-great-grandmother and which they tell mc is priceless; we will have out the gold plate, and let the table be decorated -with white flowers, for I am a. bride, you must remember; and the finest wine in the cellar—we will have that brought out too —and I will wear my mother's Jewels —the jewels that are kept In the safe in my bedroom.'

"I yielded to Lucille's whims. I pro mised her that all should be done as she desired, and then I took her in my arms aud kissed her."

Mademoiselle paused and drew another deep, long breath. The clouds were lifting -—the moon was just beginning to appear again.

"Oh, Maisie, I shall never forget Lucille when 6he swept down to the drawingroom that night to await her husband's arrival— her bridegroom of a few hours. She was dressed all in white—just like a bride,, and she wore a starry jasmine wreath In her hair, and the diamonds—her mother's wonderful diamonds—sparkled on her breast— but her eyes were brighter—ph, far brighter than the jewels, and her face was flushed with the most wonderful colour. I have never seen anyone look so lovely in all my life as Lucille as she stood by one of the wide old-fashioned windows watching and waiting for Gilliam Randolph to drive up to the house. And when he arrived she met him by the doorway and led him proudly up to me—and, mon Dieu! what a pair they made—he so tall and dark—so handsome—she so fair and slender. How could I help the tears starting to my eyes as I' looked at them, and I railed in my heart against Fate.

"Lucille was marvellous, however. Xo one could have imagined that she had a care in the- world that night. Terhaps It wa6 her mother's mad blood in her veins that helped her to get through the evening, and to be so gay—so marvellously gay; for as she sat at the head of her table she was like a twinkling flame. She laughed— she smiled—her gaiety was wonderful, and at last, at the end of the dinner, she drank to her husband—the young man- whom I must confess for my part 1 found so very attractive that I did not Dlame Lucille for having lost her heart to him.

"But what was"" I telling you, Maisie-V Oh, how Lucille rose to drink a toast to GUltam Randolph. She drank It out of a wonderful cut glass goblet that had been in the Rivers family ever since the time of Charles the Second. But after Lucille had drunk her toast she gave a wild, reckless laugh and flung the goblet over hei Shoulder, and there it crashed into a hundred fragments, and I thought she would never cease laughing; she laughed because young Gilliam Randolph looked So - concerned because she had shattered the beautiful old glass.

'"What does it matter, Gilliam?" she cried. -Who is there to come after me?'

"No doubt he thought her manner strange and her words stranger still, but he was so much in love, poor boy, that he began to laugh himself presently, and to talk about Cleopatra's pearl. Aud after a while he took Lucille by the hand and led her through the great French window Into the garden.

"It was such a beautiful night, Maisie. The velvet sky was powdered with a million stars—the scent of roses was abroad, and stocks washed wet with dew, and I made my way to my little room—my own special parlour—and there I sat and cried till I thought my heart would break; for It was so terrible to think of those two walking in the garden—the ne-w made bride aud bridegroom—and to know that they would have to part ultimately, and I wondered If they would ever have the courage to say good-bye to each other, and oh, how my heart bled for then' both—how niv heart bled."

Mademoiselle gave a qneer little cough— a cough that covered a sob I thonght. and half involuntarily I pressed her hands.

"Don't tell mc any more it you feel unhappy," I whispered. "I guess it's tbe saddest story I ever heard."

"There is little more to tell."' Mademoiselle answered. "Late—late that night —oh. it must have been close on twelve— Lucille came to my room, cherie, aud her hair had come down and was falling in loose waves about her shoulders, and the jasmine wreath had faded in her hair; the colour had left her lips, and tho glow had departed from her cheeks, but her eyes still shone gut of her pale face, and her eyes were like lamps of love.

" 'He has gone. Mademoiselle,' she said very quietly—very softly—'and when he comes round to-morrow ,v«« will tell him the truth, will you not?—will you tell him all about my heritage?"

" "Yes, Lucille, I will,' I answered very softly—'unless you would rather tell him yourself.' But she only shook her head.

"I opened my arms and she laid her head on my breast for a few minutes, then she looked up in my face and smiled.

" 'Yon must not be too sorry for mc," she ■murmured. 'I have been so happy tonight. Oh, I don't think anyone In the world has ever been happier. I, am glad that I have kuown what love meant—what love means, even if I must say good-bye to love to-morrow, for It has been worth It, Mademoiselle —oh, it has been worth it.'

"She hesitated, then, because I was weeping—the tears running down my face like soft rain, she shook her head, reproachfuUy.

" 'Indeed, you must not cry, Mademoir selle. I do not intend to cry myself, for I have had the best thing oat of life, after aIL I have known what love means.'

"She paused a second, then she walked out of the room, and I judged it wiser not to call her back. But, oh. M-alsle—Maisie— I ought not to have left Lucille that night I know that now, only her fine courage deceived mc, for next morning "

Mademoiselle's voice faltered, and she added in lower tones:

"The dawn broke wild and stormy; it was a morning of sharp squalls—brief' intermittent gusts of wind and rain, but when the maids went to call their young mistress they found her room untenanted —she had gone out notwithstanding the rough conditions of the weather. She must have dresstjd and gone out quite early in ■the morning—almost at dawn, made her way down to the seashore, got Into her boat, and rowed out to sea—and the boat was found floating bottom up later, and the tide that night brought Lucille's body back to us—white and cold and drowned, Maisie —her lips locked tight—her eyes closed, and nothing to tell us how she came by _er death—w_erher it was by misadventure; or, as I fear, by choice."

"T guess I don't -blame her." The words broke from mc huskily. "She just couldn't have gone on living—LncOle couldn't, knowing what she did abont herself. It would have teen too hard on her and too hard on. him—her husband. But •how did -he take the news, Mademoiselle— arbajc —MJiecdor'.

"I never told Gilliam Randolph the. truth," -Mademoiselle answered slowly and somewhat unsteadily. "I let him . think that it was an accident —I let everybody think that. You .see, I wanted Gilliam Randolph's recollections of Lucille, to be beautiful, happy recollections, and I made her guardians—those two stern old men— feel as I did about the matter; so to this day Gilliam Randolph belieyes that it was by God's will that Lucille's little boat was overtaken, by a sudden squall and overturned. And how can we say it wasn't so —how can we really tell?" Mademoiselle clasped her hands tightly ■together. The moon had come out again by now, and I could, see her face distinctly in the pale silvery light. Her lips were working. "Sometimes I am glad—glad—that it all happened as it did," she muttered—"tliat Lucille loved, then died. " For 'what dees the English poet say, Maisie—the wise Tennyson ? " ' 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved nt ail.' " A long silence fell. I thought of .label Martin, an' I sort of nodded my head. "I guess the poet was right,*' t answered. "He knew the stuff men and women are made of, and I'm glad Lucille had her hour, even if it was a short hour. Mademoiselle, and if she had to pay for it with her life."