ant his hold relaxed, the cards tumbled all in a
heap on the floor, his head fell back. Madelon screamed and
started forward, upsetting the table and the candle; Legros
sprang up. It was at that moment that the door opened, and
Graham, followed by a Soeur de Charite, entered the room.

Never, to the last day of his life, one may fancy, would
Graham forget the little scene before him, which, indeed,
always returned to his memory with an impression as vivid as
that made upon him now--the overturned table, the scattered
cards, Madelon in her white frock, her pale scared face, her
wavy hair, her great brown eyes illuminated by the candle she
still held, the terrified Legros, the ghastly look of the
dying man--he saw it all at a glance, as he entered the room he
had left so dim and silent but half an hour ago. It was to
Legros he first addressed himself in a tone of strong
indignation.

"Monsieur," he said, "you can have no business to transact
with a dying man, and your presence is not desired here. Might
I request you to leave me alone with my patient?"

"On my honour, Monsieur," cries the other, pale and
stammering; "it was no doing of mine--he would have it so."

Graham, very likely, did not hear what he said; he was already
at M. Linders' side. He raised his head, he felt his pulse and
heart.

"It is nearly over," he said to the Soeur de Charite; "will you
take the little girl into the next room?" And Madelon,
frightened and trembling, offered no resistance as the Soeur
took her by the hand and led her away.

It was as Graham said; all was nearly over. The feeble life,
that with careful tending and cherishing might have flickered
and lingered on yet a little longer, was all but quenched in
this last supreme passion and effort. M. Linders never spoke
again, and died in less than two hours, quietly at last, as
men do for the most part die, it is said.

"That poor child!" said Graham, "who will tell her?"

"I will," said the brave, cheery little Soeur Angelique, and
went.

* * * * * *

It was nearly midnight when the sad little bustle that had
been going on in the chamber of death was hushed at last, and
the Soeur de Charite prepared to depart. She had offered indeed
to stay all night, but when Graham assured her that there was
no occasion for any one to remain, as his room was just
opposite, and he should be on the watch to see that all was
quiet, she owned that she should be glad to go, as there was