good woman has told you how it has happened."

"Yes, when I came at noon." Her tones were peculiarly sweet and
compassionate. A touch of accent gave piquancy to what she said. She
looked at him meaningly. "I have been talking to our little Rosemarie
and she will not cry any more for her good mamma who has gone up to
the green hills because she is sick and must rest. So Rosemarie will be
patient and live here and I will be play-mamma."

"Yes, play-mamma," agreed the child. "Good play-mamma! Two mammas! But
only one papa!" She put up her arms and tucked them about his neck
and snuggled down with a happy sense of complete understanding of his
protection. At last, so it seemed to her, she had recovered the father
she had never known. Poor, little, caged bird, her release from that
lonely prison was dated in her happy consciousness from his appearance
in the doorway, and all things had been well for her after he
came--sunlight, the trees, the blue sky, and tender care, and the
companionship of human beings. Therefore, the rush of a love her child's
comprehension could not analyze had gone out to him.

Farr returned with significance the look Zelie Dionne's dark eyes gave
him.

"I found the note. It made me go a-meddling. It left a legacy to
somebody--and I accepted--without understanding why I did so." He
stroked the child's curls.

"I did not understand at first--when Madame Maillet told me," she
confessed, with a smile. "Old Etienne came at noon to tell her and she
has told it to me. It is very sad--but yet it is comical when I look at