te to his prescriptions, and other
insidious symptoms set in, pointing to a gradual decay of the vital
energies, he divined that the ill was a mental one which would baffle
his art unless he could ascertain its cause from the patient herself.
Her confession of it would be half the cure. But he did not succeed in
extracting this confession. Pauline did not know what ailed her. Beyond
a great prostration she did not know that she was sick. She was
unconscious of any cause for her present condition. This was her
language, but of course the experienced old doctor did not believe a
word of it. At the same time, however, he was aware that it was quite
useless to press his interrogatory further, his knowledge of women being
that there is no measuring the length, breadth, and depth of woman's
secretiveness. He therefore consulted M. Belmont. From him he learned
that an observable change for the worse in Pauline's manner was
coincident with the young American officer's departure from his house,
and even dated back from the latter days of his convalescence, when his
departure was understood to be only a question of time. But beyond this
M. Belmont's perspicacity did not go. He averred that he had not noticed
any particular attachment between his daughter and her patient. She was
nearly always at his bedside, but this was no more than could be
expected from a tender-hearted nurse towards a poor fellow who had
fallen among enemies, and whose life depended upon unremitting care. The
young man had throughout acted like a gentleman, was cautious, delicate,
reserved, and quite above taking advantages of his position to toy with
the feelings of Pauline. Furthermore, the girl had long been devoted to
Major Hardinge, and the Major was devoted to her. Indeed, their
relations might be said to be of the tenderest character. Finally, this
American officer, unless he was much mistaken, had contracted a strong
affection for the daughter of Sieur Sarpy, an affection which was
reciprocated, and he had every reason to believe that Pauline was well
acquainted with that circumstance.

"Stop there," said the old doctor, taking a pinch of snuff and smiling
slyly. "Here is perhaps a clue. Your daughter may have fallen in love
with this young rebel--girls cannot help such things, you know--and the
knowledge that his heart is turned to another may be precisely the thing
that has preyed upon her mind, bringing her to her present pass."

"But she and Zulm