But a strange icy feeling had gradually invaded her
heart, even whilst she listened to the simple unsophisticated talk of
Jeanne Lange. Her hands felt numb and clammy, and instinctively she
withdrew away from the near vicinity of the girl. She felt as if the
room, the furniture in it, even the window before her were dancing
a wild and curious dance, and that from everywhere around strange
whistling sounds reached her ears, which caused her head to whirl and
her brain to reel.

Jeanne had buried her head in her hands. She was crying--softly, almost
humbly at first, as if half ashamed of her grief; then, suddenly it
seemed, as if she could not contain herself any longer, a heavy sob
escaped her throat and shook her whole delicate frame with its
violence. Sorrow no longer would be gainsaid, it insisted on physical
expression--that awful tearing of the heart-strings which leaves the
body numb and panting with pain.

In a moment Marguerite had forgotten; the dark and shapeless phantom
that had knocked at the gate of her soul was relegated back into
chaos. It ceased to be, it was made to shrivel and to burn in the great
seething cauldron of womanly sympathy. What part this child had played
in the vast cataclysm of misery which had dragged a noble-hearted
enthusiast into the dark torture-chamber, whence the only outlet led
to the guillotine, she--Marguerite Blakeney--did not know; what part
Armand, her brother, had played in it, that she would not dare to guess;
all that she knew was that here was a loving heart that was filled with
pain--a young, inexperienced soul that was having its first tussle with
the grim realities of life--and every motherly instinct in Marguerite
was aroused.

She rose and gently drew the young girl up from her knees, and then
closer to her; she pillowed the grief-stricken head against her
shoulder, and murmured gentle, comforting words into the tiny ear.

"I have news for Armand," she whispered, "that will comfort him, a
message--a letter from his friend. You will see, dear, that when Armand
reads it he will become a changed man; you see, Armand acted a little
foolishly a few days ago. His chief had given him orders which he
disregarded--he was so anxious about you--he should have obeyed; and
now, mayhap, he feels that his disobedience may have been the--the
innocent cause of much misery to others; that is, no doubt, the reason
why he is so sad. The letter from his friend will cheer him, you wil