rts, Co."

[Illustration: "More cream, Monsieur?"--page 101.]

"Well, then, I'm sorry you didn't," quoth Cora, "for from motives of
delicacy I really don't care to inquire of others, and I have just
curiosity enough to wish to know how she looked."

"Sorry I can't enlighten you, Co. Get it all out of the old fellow
after the joyful event."

"Umph! Well, _that_ business prospers, _mon brave_. We shall win, I
think, as usual."

"Yes; and never easier, Co."

"Well, I don't anticipate much trouble in landing our fish. But come
along, Lucian, this romantic dell might make you forget luncheon; it
can't have that effect on me."

Cora gathered her draperies about her, and prepared to quit the little
grove, her companion following half reluctantly.

CHAPTER IX.

GONE!

Hours that seemed days; days that seemed years; weeks that seemed
centuries; yet they all passed, and Madeline Payne scarce knew, when
they were actually gone, that they were not all a dream.

Life, after that first yielding of heart and brain, had been a
delirium; then a conscious torture of mind and body; next a burden
almost too great to bear; and then a dreamy lethargy. Heaven be
praised for such moods; they are saviors of life and reason in crises
such as this through which the stricken girl was passing.

Madness had wrought upon her, and her ravings had revealed some
otherwise dark places and blanks in her story to her guardian and
nurses. Pain had tortured her. Death wrestled with her, and then,
because he could inspire her with no fear of him, because she mocked
at his terrors and wooed him, fled away.

In his place came Life, to whom she gave no welcoming smile. But Life
stayed, for Life is as regardless of our wishes as is Death.

Forms had hovered about her; kindly voices, sweet voices, had murmured
at her bedside. At times, an angel had held the cooling draught to her
thirsty lips. At last these dream-creatures resolved themselves into
realities:

Doctor Vaughan, who had ministered to her with the solicitude of a
brother, the gentleness of a woman, and the goodness of an angel.

Olive Girard who, leaving all other cares, was ever at her bedside,
and who came to that place at a sacrifice of feeling, after a
wrestling with pride, bringing a bitterness of memory, and a patient
courage of heart, that the girl could not then realize.

Henry, too, black of skin, warm of heart; who waited in the outer
court, and seemed to allow