Was she not rooted here as deeply as the chestnut-trees that grew above her mother's grave? Then he remembered Jill. Jill believed that he could make up to Marthe—for everything. Jill, who loved Marthe, had left her to him.
'You must trust me, Joseph,' he said. 'I am not a stranger. I do understand her. If they trust me—so must you.'
Joseph, making no reply, stood in the doorway and watched him pass out, under the silent bell.
He did not knock when he reached the cottage. He pushed open the door and found himself in the one room of the place, with floor of hard-beaten earth, wide fireplace, where a pot hung from a chain above a faltering fire, and stately bed in a corner. From the pillow the white face of a peasant woman turned to survey him in astonishment. A small boy sat before the fire.
'Have you seen Mademoiselle Ludérac?' Graham asked.
The little boy, staring with all his eyes, remained speechless, but the woman said: 'Mademoiselle was here a little while ago. We have no news of the kid. The mother has been killed by the lightning. Heaven pray that no evil has befallen the kid. Mademoiselle has promised to buy it from us.'
'Where has she gone, then? Where is she?' cried Graham. 'She's not looking for it on such a day!'
'But Mademoiselle would be well capable of looking for it—with her love of dumb things. I cannot tell
