THE inhabitants of the little house in Passy were of necessityearly risers; but when Susy jumped out of bed the next morningno one else was astir, and it lacked nearly an hour of the callof the bonne's alarm-clock.

　　For a moment Susy leaned out of her dark room into the darkernight. A cold drizzle fell on her face, and she shivered anddrew back. Then, lighting a candle, and shading it, as herhabit was, from the sleeping child, she slipped on her dressing-gown and opened the door. On the threshold she paused to lookat her watch. Only half-past five! She thought withcompunction of the unkindness of breaking in on Junie Fulmer'sslumbers; but such scruples did not weigh an ounce in thebalance of her purpose. Poor Junie would have to oversleepherself on Sunday, that was all.

　　Susy stole into the passage, opened a door, and cast her lighton the girl's face.

　　"Junie! Dearest Junie, you must wake up!"Junie lay in the abandonment of youthful sleep; but at the soundof her name she sat up with the promptness of a grown person onwhom domestic burdens have long weighed.

　　"Which one of them is it?" she asked, one foot already out ofbed.

　　"Oh, Junie dear, no ... it's nothing wrong with the children ...

　　or with anybody," Susy stammered, on her knees by the bed.

　　In the candlelight, she saw Junie's anxious brow darkenreproachfully.

　　"Oh, Susy, then why--? I was just dreaming we were all drivingabout Rome in a great big motor-car with father and mother!""I'm so sorry, dear. What a lovely dream! I'm a brute to haveinterrupted it--"She felt the little girl's awakening scrutiny. "If there'snothing wrong with anybody, why are you crying, Susy? Is it youthere's something wrong with? What has happened?""Am I crying?" Susy rose from her knees and sat down on thecounterpane. "Yes, it is me. And I had to disturb you.""Oh, Susy, darling, what is it?" Junie's arms were about her ina flash, and Susy grasped them in burning fingers.

　　"Junie, listen! I've got to go away at once-- to leave you allfor the whole day. I may not be back till late this evening;late to-night; I can't tell. I promised your mother I'd neverleave you; but I've got to--I've got to."Junie considered her agitated face with fully awakened eyes.

　　"Oh, I won't tell, you know, you old brick, " she said withsimplicity.

　　Susy hugged her. "Junie, Junie, you darling! But that wasn'twhat I meant. Of course you may tell--you must tell. I shallwrite to your mother myself. But what worries me is the idea ofhaving to go away-- away from Paris--for the whole day, withGeordie still coughing a little, and no one but that sillyAngele to stay with him while you're out--and no one but you totake yourself and the others to school. But Junie, Junie, I'vegot to do it!" she sobbed out, clutching the child tighter.

　　Junie Fulmer, with her strangely mature perception of the case,and seemingly of every case that fate might call on her to dealwith, sat for a moment motionless in Susy's hold. Then shefreed her wrists with an adroit twist, and leaning back againstthe pillows said judiciously: "You'll never in the world bringup a family of your own if you take on like this over otherpeople's children."Through all her turmoil of spirit the observation drew a laughfrom Susy. "Oh, a family of my own--I don't deserve one, theway I'm behaving to your"Junie still considered her. "My dear, a change will do yougood: you need it," she pronounced.

　　Susy rose with a laughing sigh. "I'm not at all sure it will!

　　But I've got to have it, all the same. Only I do feelanxious--and I can't even leave you my address!"Junie still seemed to examine the case.

　　"Can't you even tell me where you're going?" she ventured, as ifnot quite sure of the delicacy of asking.

　　"Well--no, I don't think I can; not till I get back. Besides,even if I could it wouldn't be much use, because I couldn't giveyou my address there. I don't know what it will be.""But what does it matter, if you're coming back to-night?""Of course I'm coming back! How could you possibly imagine Ishould think of leaving you for more than a day?""Oh, I shouldn't be afraid--not much, that is, with the poker,and Nat's water-pistol," emended Junie, still judicious.

　　Susy again enfolded her vehemently, and then turned to morepractical matters. She explained that she wished if possible tocatch an eight-thirty train from the Gare de Lyon, and thatthere was not a moment to lose if the children were to bedressed and fed, and full instructions written out for Junie andAngele, before she rushed for the underground.

　　While she bathed Geordie, and then hurried into her own clothes,she could not help wondering at her own extreme solicitude forher charges. She remembered, with a pang, how often she haddeserted Clarissa Vanderlyn for the whole day, and even for twoor three in succession--poor little Clarissa, whom she knew tobe so unprotected, so exposed to evil influences. She had beentoo much absorbed in her own greedy bliss to be more thanintermittently aware of the child; but now, she felt, no sorrowhowever ravaging, no happiness however absorbing, would everagain isolate her from her kind.

　　And then these children were so different! The exquisiteClarissa was already the predestined victim of her surroundings:

　　her budding soul was divided from Susy's by the same barrier ofincomprehension that separated the latter from Mrs. Vanderlyn.

　　Clarissa had nothing to teach Susy but the horror of her ownhard little appetites; whereas the company of the noisyargumentative Fulmers had been a school of wisdom andabnegation.

　　As she applied the brush to Geordie's shining head and thehandkerchief to his snuffling nose, the sense of what she owedhim was so borne in on Susy that she interrupted the process tocatch him to her bosom.

　　"I'll have such a story to tell you when I get back to-night, ifyou'll promise me to be good all day," she bargained with him;and Geordie, always astute, bargained back: "Before I promise,I'd like to know what story."At length all was in order. Junie had been enlightened, andAngele stunned, by the minuteness of Susy's instructions; andthe latter, waterproofed and stoutly shod, descended thedoorstep, and paused to wave at the pyramid of heads yearning toher from an upper window.

　　It was hardly light, and still raining, when she turned into thedismal street. As usual, it was empty; but at the corner sheperceived a hesitating taxi, with luggage piled beside thedriver. Perhaps it was some early traveller, just arriving, whowould release the carriage in time for her to catch it, and thusavoid the walk to the metro, and the subsequent strap-hanging;for it was the work-people's hour. Susy raced toward thevehicle, which, overcoming its hesitation, was beginning to movein her direction. Observing this, she stopped to see where itwould discharge its load. Thereupon the taxi stopped also, andthe load discharged itself in front of her in the shape of NickLansing.

　　The two stood staring at each other through the rain till Nickbroke out: "Where are you going? I came to get you.""To get me? To get me?" she repeated. Beside the driver shehad suddenly remarked the old suit-case from which her husbandhad obliged her to extract Strefford's cigars as they wereleaving Como; and everything that had happened since seemed tofall away and vanish in the pang and rapture of that memory.

　　"To get you; yes. Of course." He spoke the words peremptorily,almost as if they were an order. "Where were you going?" herepeated.

　　Without answering, she turned toward the house. He followedher, and the laden taxi closed the procession.

　　"Why are you out in such weather without an umbrella?" hecontinued, in the same severe tone, drawing her under theshelter of his.

　　"Oh, because Junie's umbrella is in tatters, and I had to leaveher mine, as I was going away for the whole day." She spoke thewords like a person in a trance.

　　"For the whole day? At this hour? Where?"They were on the doorstep, and she fumbled automatically for herkey, let herself in, and led the way to the sitting-room. Ithad not been tidied up since the night before. The children'sschool books lay scattered on the table and sofa, and the emptyfireplace was grey with ashes. She turned to Nick in the pallidlight.

　　"I was going to see you," she stammered, "I was going to followyou to Fontainebleau, if necessary, to tell you ... to preventyou...."He repeated in the same aggressive tone: "Tell me what?

　　Prevent what?""Tell you that there must be some other way ... some decentway ... of our separating ... without that horror. that horrorof your going off with a woman ...."He stared, and then burst into a laugh. The blood rushed to herface. She had caught a familiar ring in his laugh, and itwounded her. What business had he, at such a time, to laugh inthe old way?

　　"I'm sorry; but there is no other way, I'm afraid. No other waybut one," he corrected himself.

　　She raised her head sharply. "Well?""That you should be the woman. --Oh, my dear!" He had droppedhis mocking smile, and was at her side, her hands in his. "Oh,my dear, don't you see that we've both been feeling the samething, and at the same hour? You lay awake thinking of it allnight, didn't you? So did I. Whenever the clock struck, I saidto myself: 'She's hearing it too.' And I was up beforedaylight, and packed my traps--for I never want to set footagain in that awful hotel where I've lived in hell for the lastthree days. And I swore to myself that I'd go off with a womanby the first train I could catch--and so I mean to, my dear."She stood before him numb. Yes, numb: that was the worst ofit! The violence of the reaction had been too great, and shecould hardly understand what he was saying. Instead, shenoticed that the tassel of the window-blind was torn off again(oh, those children!), and vaguely wondered if his luggage weresafe on the waiting ............