to the utmost; but it is quite
impossible for me to attend to my business, and be at once a keeper to a
mad woman and a nurse to sick people and young children. And Heaven is
unjust to put it upon me,--yes, I say unjust! It is too much misery to
heap on one man," added Morel, in a tone bordering on distraction. So
saying, the heart-broken lapidary threw himself on his stool, and
covered his face with his hands.

"Can I help the people at the hospital having refused to receive my
mother, because she was not raving mad?" asked Madeleine, in a low,
peevish, and complaining voice. "What can I do to alter it? What is the
use of your grumbling to me about my mother? and, if you fret ever so
much about what neither you nor I can alter, what good will that do?"

"None at all," rejoined the artisan, hastily brushing the large bitter
drops despair had driven to his eyes; "none whatever,--you are right;
but when everything goes against you, it is difficult to know what to
do or say."

"Gracious Father!" cried Madeleine; "what an agony of thirst I am
enduring! My lips are parched with the fever which is consuming me, and
yet I shiver as though death were on me!"

"Wait one instant, and I will give you some drink!" So saying, Morel
took the pitcher which stood beneath the roof, and, after having with
difficulty broken the ice which covered the water, he filled a cup with
the frozen liquid, and brought it to the bedside of his wife, who
stretched forth her impatient hands to receive it; but, after a moment's
reflection, he said, "No, no, I must not let you have it cold as this;
in your present state of fever it would be dangerous."

"So much the better if it be dangerous! Quick, quick--give it me!" cried
Madeleine, with bitterness; "it will the sooner end my misery, and free
you from such an incumbrance as I am; then you will only have to look
after mad folks and young children,--there will be no sick-nurse to take
up your time."

"Why do you say such hard words to me, Madeleine?" asked Morel,
mournfully; "you know I do not deserve them. Pray do not add to my
vexations, for I have scarcely strength or reason enough left to go on
with my work; my head feels as though something were amiss with it, and
I fear much my brain will give way,--and then what would become of you
all? 'Tis for you I speak; were there only myself, I should trouble very
little about to-morrow,--thank Heaven, the river flows for every one!"

"Poor Morel!"