whose
wounds and gems the nuns of Spain are wont to pore in the solitude of
their cells.

[Illustration: 080]

Her father, elegantly dressed, presented a faded, tear-stained
countenance. He advanced towards me with little faltering steps, took me
by the hand and led me to his little girl.

"Tell me," he said in the tone of a child asking a favour, "you don't
think she has changed since you last saw her, do you? It was the day she
threw her ball up into the tree."

The perambulator which we were following in silence came to a halt in
the Bois Saint-Jean. The governess lowered the hood. Marguerite lay with
her head thrown back, her eyes big with terror, and she was stretching
out her arms to push aside something that we could not see. Oh, I
guessed well enough what invisible hand it was. The same hand that had
touched the mother was now laid upon the child. I fell on my knees.
But the phantom departed and Marguerite, raising her head, lay resting
peacefully. I gathered some flowers and laid them reverently beside her.
She smiled. Seeing her come back to life I gave her more flowers and
sang to her, endeavouring to beguile her. The air and the feeling of
happiness she now experienced brought back to her that desire to live
which had forsaken her. At the end of an hour her cheeks were almost
rosy. When it grew cool and we had to take the little suffering child
back to the chateau again, her father took my hand as we parted and,
pressing it, said in suppliant tones:

"Come again to-morrow."

[Illustration: 084]

[Illustration: 086]

21 st August

I returned next day. On the steps of the Empire chateau I encountered
the family doctor. He is a spare, elderly man whom you meet wherever
there is good music to be heard. He seems like a man perpetually
listening to the harmonies of some inward concert. He is for ever under
the spell of sounds and lives by his ear alone. He is specially noted
for his treatment of nervous complaints. Some say he is a genius;
others that he is mad. Certainly there is something peculiar about him.
When I saw him he was coming down the steps; his feet, his finger and
his lips moving in time to some intricate measure.

"Well, doctor," I said with an involuntary quaver in my voice, "and how
is your little patient?"

"She means to live," he answered.

"You will pull her through for us, won't you?" I said eagerly.

"I tell you she means to live."

"And you think, doctor, that p