of questions; Jeanne declared that she was quite well. Then she
started up with a frenzied cry: "You don't love me any more, mamma!
you don't love me any more!"

She burst into grievous sobbing, and wound her arms convulsively round
her mother's neck, raining greedy kisses on her face. Helene's heart
was rent within her, she felt overwhelmed with unspeakable sadness,
and strained her child to her bosom, mingling her tears with her own,
and vowing to her that she would never love anybody save herself.

From that day onward a mere word or glance would suffice to awaken
Jeanne's jealousy. While she was in the perilous grip of death some
instinct had led her to put her trust in the loving tenderness with
which they had shielded and saved her. But now strength was returning
to her, and she would allow none to participate in her mother's love.
She conceived a kind of spite against the doctor, a spite which
stealthily grew into hate as her health improved. It was hidden deep
within her self-willed brain, in the innermost recesses of her
suspicious and silent nature. She would never consent to explain
things; she herself knew not what was the matter with her; but she
felt ill whenever the doctor drew too near to her mother; and would
press her hands violently to her bosom. Her torment seemed to sear her
very heart, and furious passion choked her and made her cheeks turn
pale. Nor could she place any restraint on herself; she imagined every
one unjust, grew stiff and haughty, and deigned no reply when she was
charged with being very ill-tempered. Helene, trembling with dismay,
dared not press her to explain the source of her trouble; indeed, her
eyes turned away whenever this eleven-year-old child darted at her a
glance in which was concentrated the premature passion of a woman.

"Oh, Jeanne, you are making me very wretched!" she would sometimes say
to her, the tears standing in her eyes as she observed her stifling in
her efforts to restrain a sudden bubbling up of mad anger.

But these words, once so potent for good, which had so often drawn the
child weeping to Helene's arms, were now wholly without influence.
There was a change taking place in her character. Her humors varied
ten times a day. Generally she spoke abruptly and imperiously,
addressing her mother as though she were Rosalie, and constantly
plaguing her with the pettiest demands, ever impatient and loud in
complaint.

"Give me a drink. What a time you take!