Suzanne assured the child that she was quite well, and so she was. The only trouble was with the little man who is nothing but a voice and is called Conscience. He had been talking to her all night and keeping her awake.
When Jeanne told what Madame Villard's grandchild wanted, it seemed that Suzanne flinched at the name.
But she smiled and answered, "Yes, dear. Tell her you will go. It will be so nice for you. And to-day is Sunday. There is no work."
Jeanne was only a child, and she longed to go with her new little friend. She longed to ride in the big motor and to play. But she hesitated just for a minute.
"You are sure you will not need me, dear Auntie?" she asked.
"Run along and tell the little girl you are coming," laughed Auntie Sue.
When Jeanne closed the door behind her, Suzanne Moreau's smile faded. She held her throbbing head in her two hands.
How she longed to tell some one of her sufferings! If only she dared confide her story to the Major!
But she valued that honorable gentleman's friendship so much that she feared to lose it by admitting what she now felt to be her terrible crime. Conscience was making her think that—Conscience, together with the face in the locket!
And now Jeanne was going out with little Margot—her own cousin! Margot would take her in a beautiful car. Margot would wear beautiful clothes. They would play with beautiful toys.