ade a
little fire, for the evening was cool, and it gave a home look to the
room. In the midst of my contentment I had a sudden presentiment. It was
like an electric spark. 'She will not come.' In vain did I call
myself an idiot, in vain did I arrange and rearrange her chair and her
footstool. I knew that she would never come. More than once in my life I
have had these intuitions. One might believe that Fate, before striking
her heaviest blows, had a moment of compassion, and gave me a warning.

"She did not come, but Belisaire brought a note from her. It was very
brief, merely stating that M. D'Argenton was very ill, and that she
regarded it as her duty to watch at his side. As soon as he was well she
would return. Ill! I had not thought of that. I might call myself ill,
too, and keep her at my bedside. How well he understood her, the wretch!
How thoroughly he had studied that weak but kindly nature! You remember
those 'attacks' he talked of at Etiolles, and which so soon disappeared
after a good dinner. It is one of those which he now has. But my mother
was only too glad of an excuse, and allowed herself to be deceived. But
to return to my story. Behold me alone in this little home, amid all
the wasted efforts, time and money! Was it not cruel? I could not remain
there; I returned to my old room. The house seemed to me as sad as a
funeral-chamber. I permitted the fire to die out, and the roses wither
and fall on the marble hearth below with a gentle rustle. I took the
rooms for two years, and I shall keep them with something of the same
superstition with which one preserves for a long time the cage from
which some favorite bird has flown. If my mother returns we will go
there together. But if she does not I shall never inhabit the place.
I have now told you all, but do not let Cecile see this letter. Ah,
my friend, will she too desert me? The treachery of those we love is
terrible indeed. But of what am I thinking; I have her word and her
promise, and Cecile always tells the truth."

CHAPTER XXII.~~CECILE UNHAPPY RESOLVE.

Fob a long time Jack had faith that his mother would return. In the
morning, in the evening, in the silence of midday, he fancied that he
heard the rustling of her dress, her light step on the threshold. When
he went to the Rondics he glanced at the little house, hoping to see the
windows opened and Ida installed in the refuge, the address of which,
with the key, he had sent to her: "The hou