ance
that paid his rent and supported his childish vanity and grotesque
pride. From a peg in the corner hung the familiar masquerade that hid
his poverty--the pearl-gray trousers, the black frock coat, the tall
shining hat--in hideous contrast to the penury of his surroundings.
But if THEY were here, where was HE, and in what new disguise had he
escaped from his poverty? A vague uneasiness caused her to hesitate
and return to the open door. She had nearly reached it when her eye
fell on the pallet which it partly illuminated. A singular resemblance
in the ragged heap made her draw closer. The faded quilt was a
dressing-gown, and clutching its folds lay a white, wasted hand.

The emigrant childhood of Rose Nott had been more than once shadowed by
scalping knives, and she was acquainted with Death. She went fearlessly
to the couch, and found that the dressing-gown was only an enwrapping
of the emaciated and lifeless body of de Ferrieres. She did not
retreat or call for help, but examined him closely. He was
unconscious, but not pulseless; he had evidently been strong enough to
open the door for air or succor, but had afterward fallen in a fit on
the couch. She flew to her father's locker and the galley fire,
returned, and shut the door behind her, and by the skillful use of hot
water and whisky soon had the satisfaction of seeing a faint color take
the place of the faded rouge in the ghastly cheeks. She was still
chafing his hands when he slowly opened his eyes. With a start, he
made a quick attempt to push aside her hands and rise. But she gently
restrained him.

"Eh--what!" he stammered, throwing his face back from hers with an
effort and trying to turn it to the wall.

"You have been ill," she said quietly. "Drink this."

With his face still turned away he lifted the cup to his chattering
teeth. When he had drained it he threw a trembling glance around the
room and at the door.

"There's no one been here but myself," she said quickly. "I happened
to see the door open as I passed. I didn't think it worth while to
call any one."

The searching look he gave her turned into an expression of relief,
which, to her infinite uneasiness, again feebly lightened into one of
antiquated gallantry. He drew the dressing-gown around him with an air.

"Ah! it is a goddess, Mademoiselle, that has deigned to enter the cell
where--where--I--amuse myself. It is droll--is it not? I came here to
make--what you call