ace
from thence; but Maurice thought it no humiliation that the funeral of
the proud Count Tristan de Gramont should move from the doors of that
mantua-maker niece who had saved his name from dishonor by the products
of her labor.

Count Tristan had few friends, or even acquaintances in Washington.
Maurice and Gaston were chief mourners. The Marquis de Fleury and his
suite, Mr. Hilson, Mr. Meredith, Mr. Walton, and Ronald, accompanied the
corpse to its last resting-place.

Bertha had taken up her residence at Madeleine's. Maurice remained at
the hotel,--that is, he slept there, but the larger portion of his hours
was passed beneath Madeleine's roof.

That Madeleine was his betrothed was tacitly understood, though no word
had been spoken on the subject, and her manner toward him was little
changed. She loved him with all the intensity and strength of her large
nature, but her love could not, like Bertha's, find expression in words,
in loving looks, and caressing ways. Maurice was content, even though he
could never know how inexpressibly dear he was to her. His was one of
those generous natures which experience more delight in _loving_ than in
_being loved_. He never believed that Madeleine's love _could_ equal
his, and he argued that it _could not because_ there was so much more to
love _in her_ than there was _in him_, and a true, pure, holy love,
loves the attributes that are lovable rather than the mere person to
whom they appertain. Maurice asked but little! A gentle pressure of the
hand,--a soft smile,--a passing look of tenderness, though it was
certain to be quickly veiled by the dropped lids,--a casual word of
endearment timidly, reluctantly spoken, or, oftener, spoken
unpremeditatedly and followed by a blush; these were food sufficient for
his great passion,--the one passion of his life, to exist upon. Indeed
we are inclined to think that with men of his temperament love is kept
in a more vigorous, more actively healthy state by its (apparently)
receiving only measured response. A woman who is gifted with the power
of throwing her soul into looks, and language and loving ways, runs the
risk of producing upon certain men an effect approaching satiety. The
woman who has instinctive wisdom will never dash herself against this
rock; yet few women are _wise_; fewer give _too little_ of their rich,
heart-treasures than _too much_.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE HAND OF GOD.

When the fever gradually abated, and c