"Not so loud, not so loud," said the little man uneasily. "If she were to die, we should lose the money, it is true, but it might be the safest thing for us in the end. There would be fewer complications."

She raised her hands and turned from him with a look of unutterable horror. In his cowardice, and in cruelty, he had fallen far below even her measure of wrong-doing. With a pale scared face, he was watching the door with the hope of escape, but she, like an avenging fury, stood between it and him.

"Let us go into the street, I implore you," he said feebly. "I have always heard there is less danger of infection in the open air. You will not? N'importe Do not let me keep you from your affairs, my Zénobie. Can I convey any message on your behalf to your mother?"

She faced him again.

"If he dies!"

"He will not die—no, no, he will not die, believe me. You are a little nervous after your anxiety, that is all. Oh, he will not die; he has an excellent constitution— Holy Virgin, what is that?"

It was M. Deshouliéres knocking sharply at the door. Madame Roulleau, rigid and defiant again, opened it; the little notary shrank further into the corner; the doctor entered hastily.

"Mademoiselle Thérèse?" he said, looking round.

"Ah, madame, may I ask you to request her to descend I bring news, or, believe me, I would not incommode you at such a time."

at once.

"What news, monsieur?" asked madame, still erect. "Monsieur Saint-Martin has arrived."

Her head sank, she went out of the room and up the stairs slowly. There was a tempest beating in her heart when she opened the door of the sick-room. It was all very solemn and quiet, solemn with the foreshadowing of that quietness which is infinite. The child lay on the little white bed, Thérèse knelt by its side, the persiennes were half closed, but one quivering ray of sunlight touched the girl's head, and lit the sweet young face full of tender sorrow. For a moment she stood speechless, watching; the next Thérèse heard a sharp keen voice in her ear

"Why do you look like that, you? He is mine, mine still, I tell you, I will not have you take away his love. And I have hated you and done you all the harm I could do you hear?"

"Hush, hush, madame, do not disturb him," said Thérèse softly. She looked at her, and knew in an instant that this woman in her strange excitement was speaking truth; at another time she might have been stirred to anger by the confession, but for weeks past she had been walking on the borders of that land where wrath and bitterness are hushed. She was not thinking of herself when she lifted her hand and pointed to the

little drawn face on the pillow.

Madame dared not
Thérèse rose

speak, she fell on her knees and trembled.

and gently drew back the persiennes; a sweet cool breeze came into the room, the plains were all steeped in a kind of subdued sunshine, silvery, and broken with clouds. There were long shadows on the roofs and gables, birds singing in the gardens of the Evêché; presently the murmur of a distant chant came swinging up from the Cathedral, where all the windows were open. No service was going on, but the choristers were practising a requiem, very sad and sweet, yet now and then breaking into triumphant chorus. Thérèse fancied she caught the words,-"requiem, dona eis requiem,' shrill, clear, boyish voices answering one another. Rest was very near one of the three in that room. She touched madame, and said, "See, I think he knows us."

Yes. For the last time the dim eyes turned and looked into theirs,-for the last time the little weak hand just moved as if to seek their clasp; the little voice, so strangely pathetic in its hoarse unchildlike accent, tried to reach Thérèse. For the last time. After that there was peace-the peace echoed by the choristers in the Cathedral-the peace that could never any more be broken. So best!

CHAPTER XVII.

"One friend in that path shall be
To secure my steps from wrong;
One to count night day for me,
Patient through the watches long,
Serving most with none to see."

-R. BROWNING.

M. DESHOULIÉRES, who felt that he had not a moment to spare, paced up and down the little bureau in a fever of impatience. M. Roulleau had slipped out directly his wife left the room: the doctor was too much pre-occupied with a hundred thoughts to notice him at all, or he must have been struck with the abject terror in his face.

"Does monsieur mean to say that M. Saint-Martin is actually here in Charville?" he asked, in a trembling voice, with his hand on the door.

"No. He is at Maury. I am going there at once, and there is barely time to meet the last train. Will you beg mademoiselle to hasten?"

And then he began to pace up and down again with his watch in his hand. Nobody came. He opened the door and listened, but it was all silent.

With a sigh

was it of relief or disappointment?-he ran down the steps and hastened to the station. People who passed him that day said that after all his overwork M. Deshouliéres was giving up at last; and they had some reason for their opinion, for there was a worn dragged look on his face, like that of a man under the first touch of illness. Poor man! There were two or three conflicting currents in his heart, such as wear lines before they have been running very long. An hour of their work will do more than a few years of age, who is but a slow labourer after all when he is unaided. Fabien was come-this man of whose love he had never known until he had given that away which now he could never more take back. Fabien had come, and there would no doubt soon be a marriage; and happy Thérèse would be carried away, and he ? Well, he should remain in Charville, go through that daily round so like, and yet so unlike, itself; worry the Préfet, be victimised by Veuve Angelin-it was not very interesting when he looked at it in this downright, colourless fashion, but still it was there; and so far as a future could be foretold, this was the future to which he had to look forward. Most people have once or twice in their lives gone through that desolate time when before them stretches out a grey, cheerless, sunless prospect, a long dusty road, as it were, along which there must be a solitary plodding. Until we have tried it ourselves