Graham
dismissed the child with a gratuity, and he and Madelon went
up to the grave. There was no name, only the initials J. M. R.
painted on the cross beneath the three white tears, and the
customary "_Priez pour elle!_" Some one had hung up a wreath of
immortelles, and a rose-tree, twined round a neighbouring
cross, had shed its petals above Jeanne-Marie's head.
Madelon knelt down and began to pull out some weeds that had
sprung up, whilst Graham stood looking on. Long afterwards,
one might fancy, would that hour still live in his memory--the
peaceful stillness brooding over the little graveyard, the
sunset sky, the sheltering hills, the scent of the falling
roses, and Madelon, in her dark dress, kneeling by the grave.
Her task was soon accomplished, but she knelt on motionless.
Who shall say of what she was thinking? Something perhaps of
the real meaning of life, of its great underlying sadness,
ennobled by patient suffering, by unselfish devotion, for
presently she turned round to Graham.
"Oh, Horace," she said, "help me to be good; I am not, you
know, but I would like to be----and you will help me.
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