ecome regular, the
fever that colored his cheek bones would gradually disappear, and then
the good mother, closing the book, would go about her duties as
mistress of the house, leaving Mavra in charge of her son.

Gradually the needle of Mavra's embroidery work would slacken its
motion, and for long hours her eyes remain fixed on the face of the
sleeping young count. Daylight would decline, and no candles be
brought, lest the healing rest should be disturbed.

Seated near the window in the deepening shadow, the outlines of her
figure relieved against the pale blue autumn sky in which her dear
stars were fast gathering, Mavra would lose herself in a vague
infinite ecstasy as she sat gazing at her sleeping young master, whom
her heart only could now see. At the first sign of his awaking she was
on her feet with her hand upon the bell. On the arrival of the lamp
Mavra would withdraw to the workroom. At night in her dreams she would
continue her spiritual, almost mystical, contemplation of the
beautiful fair head asleep on its pillow.

When Serge got well, she was the prey of an implacable, unconscious,
immortal love. Henceforth she belonged to her idol. Present or
absent, he was her adored master; for him alone she breathed. She
would have almost hated the convalescence that day by day was taking
him from her, had not the young man's weakness obliged him frequently
to seek her aid. Supporting himself with a stick in one hand, and
resting the other on Mavra's shoulder, he would walk round his room.
She was happy and proud the day when, to give the countess a
surprise, she led him thus into the little _salon_, where the
countess, thinking he was asleep, was reading a devotional book. The
agitated joy of the mother and the nervous gayety of the son brought
tears to the eyes of the young peasant girl; but stoical, like all her
race, she drove her tears back.

Serge walked alone with a stick, then without a stick, limping a
little: by and by his firm elastic tread was heard again on the waxed
oak floor. The northern early winter was come, snow already blocking
up from time to time the seignorial mansion, then melting under the
breath of a warmer wind, till the great winter blockade finally set
in. One day a sledge, lined with fur, drawn by spirited horses,
clinking the bells that studded the harness, drew up before the door.
Serge and his mother stepped into it, waving a friendly farewell to
the household that crowded arou