“He was a soldier,” she said, “and I, his wife, will be a soldier too.  He faced Death bravely and I shall meet Life with as much courage as God will give me.  But do not, oh, do not even speak his name to me, or I shall forget I am a soldier and become a woman again.”

So, gradually, it became understood that the young soldier’s name was not to be mentioned to his widow.  She took up her burden and went on, devoting herself to the army service until the war was over.  Then she ceased to labour with lint and bandages and betook herself to new surroundings.  Her husband’s brother offered her a home, but she was unable to accept, for the two men looked so much alike that she could not have borne it.  Sometimes, even now, she turned away in pain from Rose, who resembled her father.

“‘Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,’” Madame Bernard was saying.  “I seem to run to conversational antiques tonight.  ’Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief—­’ which will you have, Rose?  If I remember rightly, you’ve had all but the thief already.  Shall I get you a nice embezzler, or will a plain burglar do?”

“Neither,” laughed Rose.  “I’m safe from embezzlers, I think, but I live in nightly fear of being burgled, as you well know.”

“None the less, we’ve got to take the risk.  Isabel will not be contented with you and me.  She’ll want other hats on the rack besides the prehistoric relic we keep there as a warning to burglars.”

“I’d forgotten Isabel,” answered Rose, with a start.  “What is she doing?”

“Dressing for dinner.  My dear, that child brought three trunks with her and I understand another is coming.  She has enough clothes to set up a modest shop, should she desire to ‘go into trade’ as the English say.”

“I’d forgotten Isabel,” said Rose, again.  “We must find some callow youths to amuse her.  A girl of twenty can’t appreciate a real man.”

“Sometimes a girl of forty can’t, either,” laughed Madame, with a sly glance at Rose.  “Cheer up, my dear—­I’m nearing seventy, and I assure you that forty is really very young.”

“It’s scarcely infantile, but I’ll admit that I’m young—­comparatively.”

“All things are comparative in this world, and perhaps you and Isabel, with your attendant swains, may enable me to forget that I’m no longer young, even comparatively.”

The guest came in, somewhat shyly.  She was a cousin of Rose’s, on the mother’s side, and had arrived only that afternoon on a visit.

“Bless us,” said Madame Bernard; “how pretty we are!  Isabel, you’re a credit to the establishment.”

Isabel smiled—­a little, cool smile.  She was almost as tall as Rose and towered far above the little lady in grey who offered her a welcoming hand and invited her to sit by the fire.  Isabel’s gown was turquoise blue and very becoming, as her hair and eyes were dark and her skin was fair.  Her eyes were almost black and very brilliant; they literally sparkled when she allowed herself to become interested in anything.