"Don't disturb yourself," continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the rebuke. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. The wall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind which each human being hid—the wall behind which she herself was hiding! If only her mother had lived, her darling mother! Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glow began to lighten it. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her. ‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. Is there anything you'd like?" "Books. She knew the truth of it all right. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay.
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