“Josephine was the last person I saw after leaving you,” he said truthfully.  “And she was in her room before eleven o’clock.”

“It is strange, unaccountable,” mused Adare.  “Miriam left her bed last night while I was asleep.  It must have been about midnight, for it is then that the moon shines full into our window.  In returning she awakened me.  And her hair was damp, there was snow on her gown!  My God, she had been outdoors, almost naked!  She said that she must have walked in her sleep, that she had awakened to find herself in the open door with the wind and snow beating upon her.  This is the first time.  I never knew her to do it before.  It disturbs me.”

“She is sleeping now?”

“I don’t know.  Josephine came a little later and said that she could not sleep.  Miriam went with her.”

“It must have been the baby,” comforted Philip, placing a hand on Adare’s arm.  “We can stand it, Mon Pere.  We are men.  With them it is different.  We must bear up under our grief.  It is necessary for us to have strength for them as well as ourselves.”

“Do you think it is that?” cried Adare with sudden eagerness.  “If it is, I am ashamed of myself, Philip!  I have been brooding too much over the strange change in Miriam.  But I see now.  It must have been the baby.  It has been a tremendous strain.  I have heard her crying when she did not know that I heard.  I am ashamed of myself.  And the blow has been hardest on you!”

“And Josephine,” added Philip.

John Adare had thrown back his shoulders, and with a deep feeling of relief Philip saw the old light in his eyes.

“We must cheer them up,” he added quickly.  “I will ask Josephine if they will join us at breakfast, Mon Pere.”

He closed the door behind him when he left the room, and he went at once to rouse Josephine if she was still in bed.  He was agreeably surprised to find that both Miriam and Josephine were up and dressing.  With this news he returned to Adare.

Three quarters of an hour later they met in the breakfast-room.  It took only a glance to tell him that Josephine was making a last heroic fight.  She had dressed her hair in shining coils low over her neck and cheeks this morning in an effort to hide her pallor.  Miriam seemed greatly changed from the preceding night.  Her eyes were clearer.  A careful toilette had taken away the dark circles from under them and had added a touch of colour to her lips and cheeks.  She went to Adare when the two men entered, and with a joyous rumble of approval the giant held her off at arm’s length and looked at her.

“It didn’t do you any harm after all,” Philip heard him say.  “Did you tell Mignonne of your adventure, Ma Cheri?”

He did not hear Miriam’s reply, for he was looking down into Josephine’s face.  Her lips were smiling.  She made no effort to conceal the gladness in her eyes as he bent and kissed her.

“It was a hard night, dear.”