had died on that first night of my illness, and
it was her punishment that she had not known her son or her son's
happiness. Whatever sins she had committed in her wayward life were
atoned for, and by her death I firmly believe that she redeemed him. She
lies now among the Temples in Charleston, and on the stone which marks
her grave is cut no line that hints of the story of these pages.

One bright morning, when Nick and I were playing cards, we heard some
one mounting the stairs, and to my surprise and embarrassment I beheld
Monsieur de St. Gre emerging on the gallery. He was in white linen and
wore a broad hat, which he took from his head as he advanced. He had
aged somewhat, his hair was a little gray, but otherwise he was the firm,
dignified personage I had admired on this same gallery five years before.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said in English; "ha, do not rise, sir" (to
me). He patted Nick's shoulder kindly, but not familiarly, as he passed
him, and extended his hand.

"Mr. Ritchie, it gives me more pleasure than I can express to see you so
much recovered."

"I am again thrown on your hospitality, sir," I said, flushing with
pleasure at this friendliness. For I admired and respected the man
greatly. "And I fear I have been a burden and trouble to you and your
family."

He took my hand and pressed it. Characteristically, he did not answer
this, and I remembered he was always careful not to say anything which
might smack of insincerity.

"I had a glimpse of you some weeks ago," he said, thus making light of
the risk he had run. "You are a different man now. You may thank your
Scotch blood and your strong constitution."

"His good habits have done him some good, after all," put in my
irrepressible cousin.

Monsieur de St. Gre smiled.

"Nick," he said (he pronounced the name quaintly, like Antoinette), "his
good habits have turned out to be some advantage to you. Mr. Ritchie,
you have a faithful friend at least." He patted Nick's shoulder again.
"And he has promised me to settle down."

"I have every inducement, sir," said Nick.

Monsieur de St. Gre became grave.

"You have indeed, Monsieur," he answered.

"I have just come from Dr. Perrin's, David,"--he added, "May I call you
so? Well, then, I have just come from Dr. Perrin's, and he says you may
be moved to Les Iles this very afternoon. Why, upon my word," he
exclaimed, staring at me, "you don't look pleased. One would think you
were going to