ed.

She covered her face with her hands for a few moments. "Do you think I
can live till Louis comes--Dr. Taschereau you know."

"I hope so," he answered, evasively.

"Make the telegram very strong; O, very strong. Say that I am dying, but
be sure you don't say that baby is--you know--I can't say it," she said
in a choking voice. "He will come, O, surely he will come," she murmured
to herself. The doctor left promising to send immediately. "You are
Isabel Leicester," Natalie said as soon as they were alone. "I am sure
you are, for I have seen your picture."

"That is my name," replied Isabel, smiling, while she wondered how much
Natalie knew about her.

"You loved Louis once?" she asked.

"Yes."

"You love him still?"

"No; that is past."

A smile of satisfaction illumined Natalie's countenance for a moment,
but quickly left it. "I was always sorry for you, Natalie," Isabel said
kindly.

"Sorry for me, why should you be sorry for me?" she asked quickly, then
pausing a moment she added, sadly, "I see you know how it is."

"Ah, I know too well, I hoped, I prayed it might be otherwise."

"He does not mean to be unkind," she said, "but it is a cruel thing to
know that your husband does not love you When I first found out that he
did not, it almost killed me. He insisted on calling our little girl
Isabel, in spite of all I could say as to my dislike to the name; so I
thought it was his mother's name, though he would not say. But when I
found out that it was yours, I was very angry; O, you must forgive me,
for I have had very hard thoughts towards you, and now I know that you
did not deserve them. O, Isabel, you are too good; I could not nurse you
so kindly, had I been in your place. Let me see my little Izzie," she
pleaded. Isabel brought the child to its mother; it looked sweetly calm
in its marble beauty. "Bury us both together in one coffin," she said,
while her tears fell fast upon its icy face. Natalie complained of great
pain, nothing that the doctor could do seemed to give her any relief,
and she lay moaning through the night. About six o'clock in the morning
there was a quick step on the stairs which did not escape the ear of the
sufferer. "Oh, Louis, Louis come to me," she cried. In a moment he was
at her side, and her arms clasped round his neck. "I knew you would
come," she said, fondly, "I could not have died happily unless you had."

He pressed her closely to him, while the hot tears fell upon h