loating through the Frenchwoman's plotting brain.

Beside the table where Ruth was painting, Madeleine made the longest
pause. She seemed disposed to converse with her young favorite; and Ruth
smiled so gratefully that M. de Bois was half reconciled to the delay,
though he had an important reason for wishing to exchange a few words
with Madeleine as soon as possible. The interval before she passed out
of the room to return to her boudoir appeared sufficiently tedious.
Gaston followed her and said,--

"Will you grant me a few moments, or are you very busy this morning?"

"Busy always," replied Madeleine, extending her hand to welcome him;
"but seldom _too_ busy to lack time for my best friend. Will you come to
my own little sanctum?"

The room to which Gaston followed her offered a striking contrast, in
point of furniture, to those which they had just left. Madeleine's
boudoir, though it had an air of inviting comfort, was adorned with
almost rigid simplicity. The only approach to luxury was a tiny
conservatory, she had caused to be built, rendered visible by glass
doors.

Madeleine took her seat before a small rosewood table, and with a pencil
in her hand, and a piece of drawing-paper before her, said, "You will
not mind my sketching as we talk. I have an idea floating through my
head, and I want to throw it off on paper; I can listen and answer, just
as well, with my fingers occupied."

Well might Gaston contemplate her in silent and wondering admiration.
Neither her countenance nor her manner betrayed any trace of the
suffering she must have endured on the day previous. She seemed to have
completely banished its recollection from her thoughts. M. de Bois was
fearful of touching upon the subject, it seemed so wholly to have
vanished from her mind; yet his errand compelled him.

"What courage, what perseverance you possess, Mademoiselle Madeleine! It
is incredible,--inexplicable," he said, at last, as he watched the
delicate fingers moving over the paper.

"There you err," answered Madeleine, brightly. "It is, at least, very
_explicable_, for it is in working that I find my strength, my
inspiration, my consolation! It was _work, incessant work_, which
sustained me when I determined to take a step from which my weaker,
frailer part shrank. A step which utter wretchedness first suggested to
me; which seemed terribly galling, oppressively revolting; which I
ventured upon with inconceivable pain. Yet, as you have s