George whistled and sang on the box. He was
very light of heart to have her with him again.
He looked impatiently at an ancient village through which
they passed, with its towers, and peasants in strange
garbs, like the pictures in some crusading tale.
"Now that we have mother, Lisa," he said, "we'll go
straight back home. I am tired of mediaeval times.
I must get to work for this youngster."
Lisa did not speak for a moment. "I should like to stay
in Vannes a little longer," she said. "I did not tell
you, but--my mother is buried there. That was why I
came; I should like to be with her."
"Why, of course, dear. As long as you like," he said
affectionately.
"I will not detain you long. Perhaps only a week or
two," she said.
He nodded, and began to whistle cheerfully again.
Frances looked at Lisa, and her eyes filled with tears.
It was a pitiful tragedy!
But the poor girl was quite right not to worry George
until the last moment. She was blocking his way--ruining
his life, and God was taking her away so that she could
no longer harm him.
And yet--poor Lisa!
They drove on. The sun warmed the crimson fields, and
the birds chirped, and this was George's child creeping
close to her breast. It stirred there a keen pang of
joy.
Surely He had forgiven her.
A month later a group of passengers in deep mourning
stood apart on the deck of the Paris as she left the
dock at Liverpool. It was George Waldeaux, his mother,
and little Jacques with his nurse.
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