-the suffering."

"Danger there cannot be," she replied, with a touch of impatience in her
voice. "Imprudent it may possibly be; but of that I have no time to
think. And as for the suffering, that concerns myself alone. There are
mental pains harder to bear than the pains of the body, and the
consciousness of a duty unfulfilled is one of the keenest of them. You
urge in vain; I must go. And now, since it is time you bade me
good-night, let me thank you for your ready help and say good-bye."

"But may I do no more for you?"

"Nothing--unless you will have the goodness to bid Madame Bouisse to
come up-stairs, and finish packing my portmanteau for me."

"At what hour do you start?"

"At eight."

"May I not go with you to the station, and see that you get a
comfortable seat?"

"Many thanks," she replied, coldly; "but I do not go by rail, and my
seat in the diligence is already taken."

"You will want some one to see to your luggage--to carry your cloaks."

"Madame Bouisse has promised to go with me to the Messageries."

Silenced, and perhaps a little hurt, I rose to take my leave.

"I wish you a safe journey, mademoiselle," I said, "and a safe return,"

"And think me, at the same time, an ungrateful patient."

"I did not say that."

"No--but you thought so. After all, it is possible that I seem so. I am
undemonstrative--unused to the amenities of life--in short, I am only
half-civilized. Pray, forgive me."

"Mademoiselle," I said, "your apology pains me. I have nothing to
forgive. I will send Madame Bouisse to you immediately."

And with this I had almost left the room, but paused upon the threshold.

"Shall you be long away?" I asked, with assumed indifference.

"Shall I be long away?" she repeated, dreamily. "How can I tell?" Then,
correcting herself, "Oh, not long," she added. "Not long. Perhaps a
fortnight--perhaps a week."

"Once more, then, good-night."

"Good-night," she answered, absently; and I withdrew.

I then went down, sent Madame Bouisse to wait upon her, and sat up
anxiously listening more than half the night. Next morning, at seven, I
heard Madame Bouisse go in again. I dared not even go to her door to
inquire how she had slept, lest I should seem too persistent; but when
they left the room and went downstairs together, I flew to my window.

I saw her cross the street in the gray morning. She walked feebly, and
wore a large cloak, that hid the disabled arm and covered her to the
fe