how things will cheer up
and grow for him, I said to him, 'Arthur, how is it that no flower ever
fails you?' and he answered in the gentlest quiet way, 'Perhaps because
I never fail them. Flowers are like people,--one must love and be
true to them, not only to-day and to-morrow, but every day--every
hour--always.' And he says such things so often. That is why I am so
fond of him."

As she received no reply, she turned toward the lounge. Bertha lay upon
it motionless and silent,--only a large tear trembled on her cheek.
Jenny sprung up, shocked and checked, and went to' her.

"Oh, Bertha!" she cried, "how thoughtless I am to tire you so, you poor
little soul! Is it true that you are so weak as all that? I heard mamma
and Arthur talking about it, but I scarcely believed it. They said you
must go to Normandy and be nursed."

"I don't want to go to Normandy," said Bertha, "I--I am too tired. I
only want to lie still and rest. I have been out too much."

Her voice, however, was so softly weak that in the most natural manner
Jenny was subdued into shedding a few tears also, and kissed her
fervently.

"Oh, Bertha!" she said, "you must do anything--anything that will
make you well--if it is only for Arthur's sake. He loves you so--so
terribly."

Whereupon Bertha laughed a little hysterically. "Does he," she said,
"love me so 'terribly'? Poor M. Villefort?"

She did not go to Normandy, however, and still went into society, though
not as much as had been her habit. When she spent her evenings at home,
some of her own family generally spent them with her, and M. Villefort
or Edmondstone read aloud or talked.

In fact, Edmondstone came oftener than ever. His anxiety and unhappiness
grew upon him, and made him moody, irritable, and morbid.

One night, when M. Villefort had left them alone together for a short
time, he sprang from his chair and came to her couch, shaken with
suppressed emotion.

"That man is killing you!" he exclaimed. "You are dying by inches! I
cannot bear it!"

"It is not _he_ who is killing me," she answered; and then M. Villefort
returned to the room with the book he had been in search of.

In this case Edmondstone's passion took new phases. He wrote no sonnets,
painted no pictures. He neglected his work, and spent his idle hours in
rambling here and there in a gloomy, unsociable fashion.

"He looks," said M. Renard, "as if his soul had been playing him some
evil trick."

He had at first compl