“In green underwood and cover
  Blossom by blossom the spring begins.”

Marie too, the child-woman, standing in her doorway, felt the thrill of new life; heard whispers of joy, but knew not what they meant; saw a radiance in the air that was not all sunlight; was conscious of a warmth at her heart which she had never known in her merriest days.  What did it all mean?  Nay, she could not tell, she was not yet awake.  She thought of her friend, of the silent voice that had spoken so often and so sweetly to her, and the desire grew strong upon her.  If she died for it, she must play once more on her violin.

There came a day in spring when the desire mastered the fear that was in her.  It was a perfect afternoon, the air a-lilt with bird-songs, and full of the perfume of early flowers.  Her husband was ploughing in a distant field, and surely would not return for an hour or two; what might one not do in an hour?  She called her little friend, Petie, who was hovering about the door, watching for her.  Quickly, with fluttering breath, she told him what she meant to do, bade him be brave and fear nothing; locked the door, drew down the blinds, and closed the heavy wooden shutters; turned to the four corners of the room, bowing to each corner, as she muttered some words under her breath; and then, catching the child’s hand in hers, began swiftly and lightly to mount the attic stairs.

CHAPTER X.

DE AKTHENAY’S VIGIL.

Was it a loup-garou in the attic? was it a loup-garou that drew that long, sighing breath, as of a soul in pain; was it a loup-garou that now groped its way to the other staircase, that which led up from the woodshed, pausing now and then, and going blindly, and breathing still heavily and slow?

De Arthenay had come up to the attic in search of something, tools, maybe, or seeds, or the like, for many odd things were stowed away under the over-hanging rafters.  He heard steps, and stood still, knowing that it must be his wife who was coming up, and thinking to have pleasure just by watching her as she went on some little household errand, such as brought himself.  She would know nothing of his presence, and so she would be free, unrestrained by any shyness or—­or fear; if it was fear.  So he had stood in his dark corner, and had seen little, indeed, but heard all; and it was a wild and a miserable man that crept down the narrow stairway and out into the fresh air.

He did not know where he was going.  He wandered on and on, hearing always that sound in his ears, the soft, sweet tones of the accursed instrument that was wiling his wife, his own, his beloved, to her destruction.  The child, too, how would it be for him?  But the child was a smaller matter.  Perhaps,—­who knows? a child can live down sin.  But Mary, whom he fancied saved, cured, the evil thing rooted out of her heart and remembrance!