“Richard,” she said, “a ship was sinking once in a fog, miles out of its course.  The captain ordered the band to play and all the officers put on their dress uniforms.  Another ship, also drifting, signalled in answer to the music and all were saved.”

The Colonel rose and offered his hand in farewell.  “Thank you, Francesca,” he answered, deeply moved.  “I put on my white gloves the day you came to tell me.  I thank you now for the signal—­and for saving me.”

She watched him as he went down the road, tall, erect, and soldierly, in spite of his three-score and ten.  “Three of us,” she said to herself, “all in white gloves.”  The metaphor appealed to her strongly.

She did not go in until Isabel appeared in the doorway, list in hand, and prettily perplexed over the problem of clothes.  Madame slipped it into the chatelaine bag that hung from her belt.  “We’ll go over it with Rose,” she said.  “She knows more about clothes than I do.”

“Have you told Cousin Rose?”

“No,” answered Madame, avoiding the girl’s eyes.  “It’s your place to tell her—­not mine.”

When Rose came down to dinner that night, she was gorgeously attired in her gown of old-gold satin, adorned with gold lace.  The last yellow roses of the garden were twined in her dark hair, and the rouge-stick, that faithful friend of unhappy woman, had given a little needed colour to her cheeks and lips, for the first time in her life.

“Cousin Rose,” began Isabel, a little abashed by the older woman’s magnificence, “I’m engaged—­to Allison.”

“Really?” cried Rose, with well-assumed astonishment.  “Come here and let me kiss the bride-to-be.  You must make him very happy,” she said, then added, softly:  “I pray that you may.”

“Everybody seems to think of him and not of me,” Isabel returned, a little fretfully.

“That’s what Aunt Francesca said, and Allison’s father seemed to think more about my making Allison happy than he did about my being happy myself.”

“That’s because the only way to win happiness is to give it,” put in Madame.  “The more we give, the more we have.”

Conversation lagged at dinner, and became, as often, a monologue by Madame.  While they were finishing their coffee, they heard Allison’s well-known step outside.

“I wonder why he had to come so early,” complained Isabel.  “I wanted to change my dress.  I didn’t have time before dinner.”

“He’ll never know it,” Madame assured her.  “We’ll excuse you dear, if you’re through.  Don’t keep him waiting.”

When the dining-room door closed, Rose turned to Madame.  “Did I—­”

“Most wonderfully.”

“But the hardest part is still to come,” she breathed, sadly.

   “’I was ever a fighter, so one fight more. 
     The best and the last’;”

Madame quoted, encouragingly.

Rose smiled—­a little wan smile—­as she pushed back her chair. 
“Perhaps,” she said, “the ‘peace out of pain’ may follow me.”