The glances of the two women met, held each other—read each other, omitting nothing. It was Piquette who looked away. If self-abasement was to be the measure of her sacrifice, she had neglected nothing.
"An' now," she said quietly, "if you please, I shall go away."
"Not yet, Madame," said Moira gently. "Not until I tell you that I know what you have done—that I believe what you have said."
"Thank you."
She caught Piquette by the hand and held her.
"I cannot be less noble than you, Madame. Forgive me."
"It is Jeem 'Orton who should forgive."
"I have done him a great wrong—and you. And I must do him another great wrong. You have said that only God could keep you from the man you love. God has kept me from Jim Horton. I cannot see him again."
"But you cannot stay here, Madame," put in Piquette earnestly.
"No, perhaps not," wearily, "but you have taught me something. If sacrifice is the test that love exacts, like you, I can bear it——"