did
Monsieur think he was going to die? In that case how much
better to have taken him to the hospital; a death in the house
was always so inconvenient and disagreeable--not that she had
grudged it to that _pauvre_ Madame Linders, but this was a
different thing altogether; would he certainly die? Monsieur
said he did not know, one must always hope, but the case was a
grave one, and seeing that Madame could give him no help he
left her.

He had questioned Madeleine in the hope that she would be able
to tell him of some one for whom he could send, or to whom he
could at least write, but here again he was baffled, and he
could only wait now for the moment when M. Linders should
recover consciousness.

The hotel was all astir by this time with life and movement,
doors opening and shutting, footsteps up and down the
staircases and corridors, voices talking, calling, grumbling,
downstairs eating and drinking going on with much clattering
of plates and dishes, fiacres and omnibuses driving up,
tourists setting off in gay parties for their day's sight-
seeing, luggage being moved, travellers coming, travellers
going, to England, to the north, to the south, to the ends of
the earth--all the busy restless hotel life going on except in
this one silent room, where two people sat very quietly
watching a third, who, as one of them foresaw sadly enough,
would never take part in all this stir and bustle of life
again. Outside was broad sunny daylight now, but within it was
all dim and cool, for the night had been hot, and the window
stood wide open, and now the morning air blew freshly through
the Venetian shutters, that were closed to darken the room and
shut out the sun, which later would shine full upon them. The
morning hours slipped away; there was nothing to be done while
M. Linders remained in this state, and Madelon, by Horace's
advice, took a book, and seated herself on a low stool by the
window to read. Now and then she would stand looking at her
father with a most pitiful yearning in her great brown eyes;
once or twice, M. Linders, in his dull slumber, half torpor,
half sleep, seemed in some sort conscious of her presence; he
moved his head uneasily, said "Madeleine," and then some low
muttered words which she could not catch, but he never quite
roused up, and after each throb of expectation and hope, she
could only return to her book, and her silent watching.

Graham went in and out, or sat reading and writing at t