turned to Madeleine and said, with the emotion of a
genuinely manly nature which is not ashamed to receive a benefit,--

"To owe you so much is not oppressive to me, Madeleine. There is no
being on earth, man or woman, to whom I would so willingly be indebted.
I know the happiness it confers upon you to be able to do what you have
done. I know your thankfulness is greater even than mine; though how
great that is, even you cannot"--

"What, Maurice!" broke in the countess; "are you so thoroughly without
pride or self-respect that you talk of accepting the bounty of
Mademoiselle de Gramont? You consent to receive this charity doled out
by the hands of a _mantua-maker_?"

Maurice grew livid with suppressed anger at this new insult, because it
was levelled at Madeleine, rather than at himself.

"My grandmother, when you are calmer, and when I myself am calmer, I
will speak to you on this subject."

"How pale you look, Madeleine!" cried Bertha, suddenly. "Surely you are
ill!"

These words caused Maurice and M. de Bois to spring to the side of
Madeleine. Her strength had been over-taxed by the emotions of the last
few days, and it suddenly gave way. It was by a strong effort of
volition that she prevented herself from fainting. Maurice, who had
caught her in his arms, placed her tenderly in a chair, and for a moment
her beautiful head fell upon his shoulder; but she struggled against the
insensibility which was stealing over her, and feebly waved her hand in
the direction of a small table upon which stood a tumbler and a carafe
of water. M. de Bois poured some water into the glass and would have
held it to her lips; but Maurice took the tumbler from him, and, as
Madeleine drank, the delight of ministering to her overcame his alarm at
her indisposition, and sent shivering through his frame a thrill of
almost rapture.

In a few moments she lifted her eyes over which the lids had drooped
heavily, and, trying to smile, sat up and made an effort to speak; but
the pale lips moved without sound, and her countenance still wore a
ghastly hue.

"Are you better, my own dear Madeleine? What can I do for you?" asked
Bertha, who was kneeling in front of her.

Madeleine murmured faintly,--

"I would like to be left alone, dear. Forgive me for sending you away. I
shall soon be better when I am alone."

"Impossible, Madeleine!" cried Maurice, his arm still about her waist.
"You will not ask _me_ to leave you."

Perhaps she onl