am of it, but
rather made merry over the pitiable state of his toilet. The day was
excessively hot, and we were quite dry before the end of the walk.
Edmee, however, remained sad and pensive. It seemed to me that she was
making an effort to show me as much friendship as at luncheon. This
affected me considerably; for I was not only enamoured of her--I loved
her. I could not make the distinction then, but both feelings were in
me--passion and tenderness.

The chevalier and the abbe returned in time for dinner. They conversed
in a low voice with M. de la Marche about the settlement of my affairs,
and, from the few words which I could not help overhearing, I gathered
that they had just secured my future on the bright lines they had laid
before me in the morning. I was too shy and proud to express my simple
thanks. This generosity perplexed me; I could not understand it, and I
almost suspected that it was a trap they were preparing to separate me
from my cousin. I did not realize the advantage of a fortune. Mine were
not the wants of a civilized being; and the prejudices of rank were with
me a point of honour, and by no means a social vanity. Seeing that they
did not speak to me openly, I played the somewhat ungracious part of
feigning complete ignorance.

Edmee grew more and more melancholy. I noticed that her eyes rested now
on M. de la Marche, now on her father, with a vague uneasiness. Whenever
I spoke to her, or even raised my voice in addressing others, she would
start and then knit her brows slightly, as if my voice had caused her
physical pain. She retired immediately after dinner. Her father followed
her with evident anxiety.

"Have you not noticed," said the abbe, turning to M. de la Marche, as
soon as they had left the room, "that Mademoiselle de Mauprat has very
much changed of late?"

"She has grown thinner," answered the lieutenant-general; "but in my
opinion she is only the more beautiful for that."

"Yes; but I fear she may be more seriously ill than she owns," replied
the abbe. "Her temperament seems no less changed than her face; she has
grown quite sad."

"Sad? Why, I don't think I ever saw her so gay as she was this morning;
don't you agree with me, Monsieur Bernard? It was only after our walk
that she complained of a slight headache."

"I assure you that she is really sad," rejoined the abbe. "Nowadays,
when she is gay, her gaiety is excessive; at such a time there seems to
be something strange