eyes turned scrutinizingly upon them,
listening to and passing judgment upon every word they uttered, and
looking a rebuke if Bertha ventured to smile. The icy chill of such a
presence rendered Bertha and Gaston so thoroughly uncomfortable, that
the young girl, although she was one of those beings who could hardly
bear to live out of the sight of those she loved best, felt relieved
when Gaston rose and bade her adieu. His visit had been brief, yet it
seemed longer than all the combined hours they had passed together
during the last three days. The visage of the countess relaxed somewhat
after Gaston had gone, but she remained lost in thought without further
noticing her niece. Bertha was, at least, spared the nervous unrest
produced by those piercing eyes ever upon her.

Unfortunately Bertha's resources for self-diversion were of the most
limited description. Hers was a social, a wholly dependent nature; she
could not, like Madeleine, create her own amusement, and make her own
occupation. She tried to read, but could not fix her attention; she
tried to embroider, but quickly threw down her work; she could only
wander in and out of the room, now watching at the window as though she
expected some one; now sitting down and jumping up again; now turning
over books and papers, and looking about for something, she did not know
what, until she had thrown the room into complete disorder; and
certainly her restless flitting backward and forward would have half
distracted any one less absorbed than the countess. During one of
Bertha's fits of contemplation at the window, she exclaimed,--

"Here comes Maurice, at last! I thought he would never be here!"

"I think my father is decidedly improving," said Maurice, as he entered.
"I feel certain he recognized me to-day, and I thought he attempted to
pronounce my name."

A faint light gleamed in the eyes of the countess at these words, but it
was quenched by those which followed.

"Madeleine, he always seems to know, and he evidently likes to have her
near him. His eyes wander after her when she leaves the room, and
to-day, I thought he tried to smile when she returned."

"He is better then; it will soon be possible to move him; he can soon
have that care which _should_ be most acceptable to every son, and, I
trust, has ever been to mine."

The countess made this assertion proudly, in spite of the deep wound she
had received through her son's recognition of Madeleine; she had t