fold all his clothes, as usual, except his
waistcoat--and that he snatched away from me, and put it under his
pillow. We have no hope of being able to examine the waistcoat without
his knowledge. His sleep is like the sleep of a dog; if you only
approach him, he wakes instantly. Forgive me for troubling you with
these trifling details, only interesting to ourselves. You will at least
understand the constant anxiety that we suffer."

"In your unhappy position," said Stella, "I should try to resign myself
to parting with him--I mean to placing him under medical care."

The mother's face saddened. "I have inquired about it," she answered.
"He must pass a night in the workhouse before he can be received as a
pauper lunatic in a public asylum. Oh, my dear, I am afraid there is
some pride still left in me! He is my only son now; his father was a
General in the French army; I was brought up among people of good blood
and breeding--I can't take my own boy to the workhouse!"

Stella understood her. "I feel for you with all my heart," she said.
"Place him privately, dear Madame Marillac, under skillful and kind
control--and let me, do let me, open the pocketbook again."

The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocketbook. "Perhaps,"
Stella persisted, "you don't know of a private asylum that would satisfy
you?"

"My dear, I do know of such a place! The good doctor who attended my
husband in his last illness told me of it. A friend of his receives a
certain number of poor people into his house, and charges no more than
the cost of maintaining them. An unattainable sum to _me!_ There is the
temptation that I spoke of. The help of a few pounds I might accept,
if I fell ill, because I might afterward pay it back. But a larger
sum--never!"

She rose, as if to end the interview. Stella tried every means of
persuasion that she could think of, and tried in vain. The friendly
dispute between them might have been prolonged, if they had not both
been silenced by another interruption from the next room.

This time, it was not only endurable, it was even welcome. The poor boy
was playing the air of a French vaudeville on a pipe or flageolet. "Now
he is happy!" said the mother. "He is a born musician; do come and see
him!" An idea struck Stella. She overcame the inveterate reluctance in
her to see the boy so fatally associated with the misery of Romayne's
life. As Madame Marillac led the way to the door of communication
between