erself as her mother, her soul would have received a shock from which recovery might have been difficult. Now the shock had not only been mitigated by months of torturing doubt, but was compensated by the thrill of her father’s sacrifice. Whe
n he had ended, she turned and wept and knelt before him, crying for forgiveness, calling him all manner of foolish names. He said, stroking her dark hair: “I am only a poor old bankrupt Marchand de Bonheur!” “You will be Marchand de Bonheur to the end,” she said, and with total want of logical relevance she added: “See what happiness you have brought me to-night.” “At any rate, my dear,” said he, “we have found each other at last.” She went to bed and lay awake til
a bit about our awards
l dawn looking at a new world of wrong doing, suffering and heroism. Who was she, humble little girl, living her sequestered life, to judge men by the superficialities of their known actions? She had judged her father almost to the catastrophe
of love. She had judged Martin bitterly. What did she know of the riot in his soul? Now he was offering his life for a splendid ideal. She felt humble beside her conception of him. And her Uncle Gaspard, great, tender, adored, was lying far, far away in the north, with a bullet through his body. She prayed her valiant little soul out for the two of them. And the next morning she arose and went to her work brave and clear-eyed, with a new hope in God based upon a new faith in man.
a bit our philosophy
A day or two later she received a wild letter from Corinna Hastings. Corinna’s letters were as frequent as blackberries in March. Félise knitted her brows over it for a long time. Then she took it to her father. “The sense,” she said, “
must lie in the scrabble I can’t make out.” Fortinbras put on his spectacles and when, not without difficulty, he had deciphered it, he took off the spectacles and smiled the benevolent smile of the Marchand de Bonheur. “Leave it to me, my dear,” said he. “I will answer Corinna.” In the tiny town of Wendlebury, in the noisy bosom of her family, Corinna was eating her heart out. During the latter days of June she had returned to the fold, an impecunious failure. As a matt