in the chubby fingers, and coo the soft Indian baby-talk which was so alien to the white woman. And Rosario chuckled and crowed; tossing his arms until Andree looked up with the beautiful face laughing through her hair.

"Il m'aime," she cried. "He do like me best. Dieu! It is me best."

Later she gathered him into her arms; sitting on the floor and rocking and crooning until he fell asleep. She took no count of Jennifer. Women never entered much into Andree's calculation unless they got in her way, and Jennifer was deeply thankful that the girl did not know how much this woman who slipped down on the rug beside her stood in her way.

"Andree," she said; "Mrs. Grange showed me a very pretty picture of you. I should think it would make you feel so proud. Mr. Heriot painted it, didn't he?"

"Oui," said Andree on a long-drawn breath.

"And he painted others too." Jennifer's voice faltered a little. She was striving to crush down an unworthy doubt. But the girl beside her was so beautiful, so very beautiful. And she knew that she was plain. "Won't you show me the others some day, Andree?"

For a little the girl was silent. Jennifer saw the colour pulsing in her face and the flutter of her breast. Then Andree cast Rosario aside with that impetuosity to which he was so accustomed that it did not break his sleep and hid her face in her hands.

"It makes me go seeck inside to talk 'bout him," she wailed. "I do not know. I do not know. I not care for people to call me belle any more."

Jennifer breathed sharply. The bent, dark head blurred before her eyes. Then she put her arm round the shoulders and drew Andree's head against her.

"Tell me," she said gently, "is it because he had to go away? He could not help that, Andree."

As usual under pressure Andree sloughed off all reserve and flung her heart bare to Jennifer as she had done to Dick.

"I love him," she cried. "I do love him so I could keel him. And he laugh at me. He kiss me—and laugh. The place burn. It burn now. One day he say, 'I love