asily swayed, she never could come to a firm decision, form
a resolution, and abide by it, in spite of all arguments brought to
bear against it. In the hour of peril she would always shut her eyes and
trust to chance for a relief which never came. Never once did she think
to ward off trouble by her own exertions.

Quite different was Madeleine's character. Beneath her gentle timidity
lay a strong, self-reliant will. Once decided upon what was right and
just, nothing could change her. If it was her duty to make a sacrifice,
it was to be carried out to the letter; no hesitation and sighs for
what might have been; she shut out all deceitful illusions, and walked
straight forward without one look back.

"We had better end the matter at once, dear aunt," she said, in a
gentle, but firm tone. "Believe me, the reality of misfortune is not as
painful as its apprehension. You cannot bear the shocks of sorrow, and
delusive hopes of happiness, much longer. Do you know what anxiety of
mind has done to you? Have you looked in the mirror during the last four
months?"

She led her aunt up to the glass, and said:

"Look at yourself."

Mme. Fauvel was indeed a mere shadow of her former self.

She had reached the perfidious age when a woman's beauty, like a
full-blown rose, fades in a day.

Four months of trouble had made her an old woman. Sorrow had stamped its
fatal seal upon her brow. Her fair, soft skin was wrinkled, her golden
hair was streaked with silver, and her large, soft eyes had a painfully
frightened look.

"Do you not agree with me," continued Madeleine, pityingly, "that peace
of mind is necessary to you? Do you not see that you are a wreck of your
former self? It is a miracle that M. Fauvel has not noticed this sad
change in you!"

Mme. Fauvel, who flattered herself that she had displayed wonderful
dissimulation, shook her head.

"Alas, my poor aunt! you think you concealed your secret from all: you
may have blinded my uncle, but I suspected all along that something
dreadful was breaking your heart."

"You suspected what, Madeleine? Not the truth?"

"No, I was afraid--Oh, pardon an unjust suspicion, my dear aunt, but I
was wicked enough to suppose----"

She stopped, too distressed to finish her sentence; then, making a
painful effort, she added, as her aunt signed to her to go on:

"I was afraid that perhaps you loved another man than my uncle; it was
the only construction that I could put upon your stran