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too near her cheek, or the flash of a lizard across the path, or the muted plop of a ripe apricot falling among the herbs—some small jerk at her senses recalled Jennifer to herself.
    She checked her pace, and spoke. "Sister, please."
    The woman turned. The white hands were hidden again, but the ruby sparkled as the sun caught it. The shadow of a peach tree, making patterns with the sun upon her black habit, cast a veil across the upper part of her face.
    "Please," said Jennifer, holding her with a little gesture, "just one moment. Please tell me a—a little more about it. It's been a bit of a shock, you see. I'd be glad if you'd tell me—how it happened."
    "What do you want to know?"
    Under the circumstances, the question was sufficiently surprising, but the cool voice, no less than the woman's whole indifferent demeanor, made it an outrage. A healthy prick of anger stabbed through the numbness of Jennifer's grief.
    She said, hotly, "Somewhat naturally, I want to know everything about it! I come here, expecting to see my cousin; I've heard nothing from her since she wrote three weeks ago asking me to come; I have the greatest difficulty in finding out anything about her—and now you tell me that she's dead, and expect that to be enough! Don't you think I have a right to know how she died, and why none of her relatives has been informed of her death?"
    Throughout this outburst the other did not move, but stood listening with bent head, a humble attitude that somehow completely failed to suggest humility; Jennifer found herself, indeed, with the odd impression that the Spaniard was indulging in a species of swift and unpleasant calculation. However this was, it appeared to result in a change of attitude, for when Jennifer stopped speaking, the other seemed ready enough to volunteer the information she sought; indeed, she was almost concerned to give an account so full that there would be nothing left to ask.
    "She died of pneumonia, following a car accident which occurred on her way here from Bordeaux, on June the thirteenth. She drove herself up on a bad day, after a period of heavy rain. It was evening, and very stormy, when she came up the valley from Luz, and she was a little way below Gavarnie when the accident happened. It's thought that some boulders and clay above the road had been loosened by the rain; at any rate, an avalanche of stones and small rocks apparently swept the car off the road into the gorge. She------"
    "One moment," Jennifer interrupted the even narrative. "What do you mean by 'it is thought,' and 'it appeared'? Don't you know how the accident happened? If Gil—if Madame Lamartine died of pneumonia following the accident, surely she was able to give account of it herself?"
    "But no." The answer was emphatic. "She gave no account of it. I have said that it was a wild night; well, when the car went into the gorge, madame was bruised and shaken, but luckily escaped worse injury. There, the gorge is not deep. Nobody saw the accident. She managed to get up here, without help, but it is a long way, and in that terrible storm------" Inside the black sleeves the hands sketched a tiny gesture.
    "When she reached our gate she was exhausted, completely exhausted. We took her in and put her to bed, but the shock had made her ill, and by the next day she was delirious. After that, it did not take long. She died eight days later, on the Tuesday, We did what we could.'*
    "But I don't understand—where did you say this happened?"
    "About six kilometers below Gavarnie."
    "Then why," asked Jennifer, "didn't she go to Gavamie for help? Why did she struggle all the way up here? Didn't she go through the village? And didn't anybody see her?"
    Anxiety and shock had unconsciously sharpened Jennifer's voice, so that the rapid questions sounded almost like an accusation, but if the other resented the tone, she made no sign, keeping her eyes on the ground and her voice smooth.
    "There I cannot answer you, senorita. Why she