es, I have seen it; but not lately."

There was a brief pause.

"Madame Bouisse thinks it so like yourself, mademoiselle," I said,
timidly, "that it might almost be your portrait."

"I can believe it," she answered. "It is very like my mother."

Her voice faltered; and, still kneeling, she dropped her face in her
hands, and wept silently.

Madame Bouisse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where she
was sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed,
believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make a
formal declaration.

"Alas! mademoiselle," I said, hesitatingly, "I little thought..."

She rose, dashed the tears aside, and, holding out her hand to me, said,
kindly--

"It is no fault of yours, fellow-student, if I remind you of the
portrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles still
more nearly. I am sorry to have troubled your kind heart with my griefs.
It is not often that they rise to the surface."

I raised her hand reverently to my lips.

"But you are looking worn and ill yourself," she added. "Is anything the
matter?"

"Not now," I replied. "But I have been up all night, and--and I am very
tired."

"Was this in your professional capacity?"

"Not exactly--and yet partly so. I have been more a looker-on than an
active agent--and I have witnessed a frightful death-scene."

She sighed, and shook her head.

"You are not of the stuff that surgeons are made of, fellow-student,"
she said, kindly. "Instead of prescribing for others, you need some one
to prescribe for you. Why, your hand is quite feverish. You should go to
bed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours."

"I will lie down for a couple of hours when Madame Bouisse is gone; but
I must be up and out again at six."

"Nay, that is in three hours."

"I cannot help it. It is my duty."

"Then I have no more to say. Would you drink some lemonade, if I made it
for you?"

"I would drink poison, if you made it for me!"

"A decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!" laughed she, and left the room.

CHAPTER LII.

NEWS FROM ENGLAND.

It was a glorious morning--first morning of the first week in the merry
month of June--as I took my customary way to Dr. Cheron's house in the
Faubourg St. Germain. I had seen Dalrymple off by the night train the
evening previous, and, refreshed by a good night's rest, had started
somewhat earlier than usual, for the purpose of taking a turn in the