that he was rapidly wasting away, a
prey to that terrible disease, consumption. The matted hair clinging to
the moist forehead, the pulses on the temples beneath marking life's
ebb; the sunken cheek and the hollow soundless voice, all foreshadowed
the approaching end. As I sat by his side and held his emaciated hand, I
felt I had come none too soon.

Yet he sought to appear cheerful.

"Where are my birds, _ma petite_?" he asked Madeleine. "Give me the
'surprise.' Look here, Felix, isn't she an artist?" he said, holding up
the surprise; the same his _petite_ had announced as being in
preparation. It had taken the shape of an embroidered mat to put under
his lamp.

Yes, she was an artist. Her subject was simple enough. Four birds
representing the four seasons filled the corners of a grey silk square.
There was the crow, the swallow, the nightingale--the fourth I forget;
each beautifully modelled with many-shaded threads of silk, and linked
together by a cleverly-contrived garland of flowers, appropriate to the
seasons they were to illustrate. In the centre, entertwined with a bunch
of evergreen, a ribbon, on which were embroidered the words--

"Les saisons qui changent
L'amitie ne derangent."

Yes, she was right. True friendship will not change with the seasons
that come and go. But had she thought, as she plied the needle, of the
friendship that ripens and grows, expanding till it is merged in
affection of a deeper nature?

* * * * *

"Stop with me another ten minutes, then let me rest," Claude said, as we
sat by the window, waiting for the moon to rise. "Perhaps I shall see
it; or if not, I shall know it has risen."

"Where must I look for it?" I asked.

"Over those hills. It will hide behind the mists. Wait, to-morrow
perhaps; Thursday--Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Wait."

He was exhausted; I would not let him speak more, but left him to rest,
watched by the pale girl that was ever by his side.

The next day he seemed so much better that he surprised us all. Could it
be possible that a crisis was passed, that the illness had taken a
favourable turn? One dared not think so, but yet the balmy air of
Mentone had ere this worked wonders.

"O Felix," he said, "I feel happier than I have ever been. Every day
brings me new life and light. The world is more beautiful than I
thought; not all drawing; colour too, such colour!" After a pause, he
continued--

"I must tell y