d destroyed all feeling of respect for her in her
daughter's mind. The physical pain grew worse; by degrees she lost
consciousness, and sat like one asleep upon the garden-seat.

The Countess de Saint-Hereen, left to herself, thought that her mother
had given her a somewhat shrewd home-thrust, but a kiss and a few
attentions that evening would make all right again.

A shrill cry came from the garden. She leaned carelessly out, as
Pauline, not yet departed on her errand, called out for help, holding
the Marquise in her arms.

"Do not frighten my daughter!" those were the last words the mother
uttered.

Moina saw them carry in a pale and lifeless form that struggled for
breath, and arms moving restlessly as in protest or effort to speak; and
overcome by the sight, Moina followed in silence, and helped to undress
her mother and lay her on her bed. The burden of her fault was greater
than she could bear. In that supreme hour she learned to know her
mother--too late, she could make no reparation now. She would have them
leave her alone with her mother; and when there was no one else in the
room, when she felt that the hand which had always been so tender for
her was now grown cold to her touch, she broke out into weeping. Her
tears aroused the Marquise; she could still look at her darling
Moina; and at the sound of sobbing, that seemed as if it must rend the
delicate, disheveled breast, could smile back at her daughter. That
smile taught the unnatural child that forgiveness is always to be found
in the great deep of a mother's heart.

Servants on horseback had been dispatched at once for the physician and
surgeon and for Mme. d'Aiglemont's grandchildren. Mme. d'Aiglemont the
younger and her little sons arrived with the medical men, a sufficiently
impressive, silent, and anxious little group, which the servants of the
house came to join. The young Marquise, hearing no sound, tapped gently
at the door. That signal, doubtless, roused Moina from her grief, for
she flung open the doors and stood before them. No words could have
spoken more plainly than that disheveled figure looking out with haggard
eyes upon the assembled family. Before that living picture of Remorse
the rest were dumb. It was easy to see that the Marquise's feet were
stretched out stark and stiff with the agony of death; and Moina,
leaning against the door-frame, looking into their faces, spoke in a
hollow voice:

"I have lost my mother!"

PARIS,