The room seemed a warm home to her now.

Above the wall she had hung photographs of the great Madonnas, and lately she had placed one of Frances Waldeaux among them.

That was the face on which she looked last at night.

When Clara had noticed it, Lucy had said, "I am as fond of the dear lady as if she were my own mother." She sat down before it now, and taking out her sewing began to work, glancing up at it, half smiling as to a friend who talked to her.

She thought of Furst Hugo boiling soap, with a gentle pity, and of Jean with hot disdain.