She had been cheerful on
her journey from Munich. There was one clear fact in her
brain: She was on her way to George.
The countless toy farms of southern France, trimmed
neatly by the inch, swept past her. In Brittany came
melancholy stretches of brown heath and rain-beaten
hills; or great affluent estates, the Manor houses
covered with thatch, stagnant pools close to the doors,
the cattle breaking through the slovenly wattled walls.
Frances, being a farmer, felt a vague amusement at
these things, but they were all dim to her as a faded
landscape hanging on the wall.
She was going to George.
Sometimes she seemed to be in Lucy's room again, with the
sweet, clean air of youth about her. All of that
purity and love might have gone into George's
life--before it fell into the slough.
But she was going now to take it out of the slough.
There was a merchant and his wife from Geneva in the
carriage with their little boy, a pretty child of five.
Frances played and joked with him.
"Has madam also a son?" his mother asked civilly.
She said yes, and presently added, "My son has now a
great trouble, but I am going to relieve him of it."
The woman, startled, stared at her.
"Is it not right for me to rid him of it?" she demanded
loudly.
"Mais oui, certainement" said the Swiss. She watched
Frances after that furtively. Her eyes, she thought,
were quite sane. But how eccentric all of these
Americans were!
Mrs.
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