he misery of my
miserable life has come from her! My heart is one huge wound, from the
gashes she has cut in it. When he pretended to be ill, she went to
him on wings, and would never again leave him; and I am dying, and she
refuses to come to me. What a cruel mother! it is she who has killed me,
and she does not wish to see me die!"

Exhausted by this effort, Jack let his head fall back on the pillow, and
the sister bent over him in gentle pity, while the brief winter's day
ended in a yellow twilight and occasional gusts of snow.

Charlotte and D'Argenton descended from their carriage. They had just
returned from a fashionable concert, and were carefully dressed in
velvet and furs, light gloves and laces. She was in the best of spirits.
Remember that she had just shown herself in public with her poet, and
had shown herself, too, to be as pretty as she was ten years before. The
complexion was heightened by the sharp wintry air, and the soft wraps
in which she was enveloped added to her beauty as does the satin and
quilted lining of a casket enhance the brilliancy of the gems within. A
woman of the people stood on the sidewalk, and rushed forward on seeing
her.

"Madame, madame! come at once!"

"Madame Belisaire!" cried Charlotte, turning pale.

"Your child is very ill; he asks for you!"

"But this is a persecution," said D'Argenton. "Let us pass. If the
gentleman is ill, we will send him a physician."

"He has physicians, and more than he wants, for he is at the hospital."

"At the hospital!"

"Yes, he is there just now, but not for very long. I warn you, if you
wish to see him you must hurry."

"Come on, Charlotte, come on! It is a frightful lie. It is some trap
laid ready for you;" and the poet drew Charlotte to the stairs.

"Madame, your son is dying! Ah, God, is it possible that a mother can
have a heart like this!"

Charlotte turned toward her. "Show me where he is," she said; and the
two women hurried through the streets, leaving D'Argenton in a state of
rage, convinced that it was a mere device of his enemies.

Just as Madame Belisaire left the hospital, two persons hurried in,--a
young girl and an old man.

A divine face bent over Jack. "It is I, my love, it is Cecile."

It was indeed she. It was her fair pale face, paler than usual by reason
of her tears and her watchings; and the hand that held his was the
slender one that had already brought the youth such happiness, and yet
did its part in