Maurice
was lying back in his arm-chair--his hands were calmly folded together,
his head drooped a little to one side, the rich chestnut curls (for his
hair had darkened until it no longer resembled Bertha's golden locks)
were disordered, and fully revealed his fair, intellectual brow; the
pallor of his face rendered more than usually conspicuous the chiselling
of his finely-cut features; the calm, half-smiling curve of his
handsome mouth gave his whole countenance an expression of placid
happiness which it had not worn, of late, in waking hours. Madeleine sat
and gazed at him as she could never have gazed when his eyes might have
met hers; she gazed until her whole soul flashed into her face; and if
Maurice had awakened, and caught but one glimpse of the fervent radiance
of that look, he would surely have known her secret.

There is intense fascination to a woman in scanning the face that to her
is beyond all others worth perusing, when the soft breath of sleep
renders the beloved object unconscious of the eyes bent tenderly upon
his features. No check is given to the flood of worshipping love that
pours itself out from her soul; then, and perhaps _then only_, in his
presence, she allows the tide of pent-up adoration to break down all its
natural barriers. However perfect her devotion at other times, there
_may_, there always _does_ exist a half-involuntary _reticence_, a
secret fear that if even her eyes were to betray the whole wealth of her
passion, it would not be well with her. Men are constitutionally,
unconsciously _ungrateful_; give them abundance of what they covet most
and they prize the gift less highly than if its measure were stinted.
And women have an instinct that warns them not to be too lavish. Those
women who love most fervently, most deeply, most _internally_, seldom
frame the full strength of that love into words, or manifest it in looks
even; that is, in the waking presence of the one who holds their entire
being captive.

Maurice slept on, though the streets had long since become noisy, and
door-bells were ringing, and there was a sound of hammering in the entry
(the upholsterer at work), and steps could be distinguished passing up
and down the stair.

Madeleine, who at one period of her life had been used to night vigils,
hardly felt fatigued; but she knew that she must hoard her strength if
she would have it last to meet prolonged requirements. She touched
Maurice softly; but he was not arou