madame soon
assisted her charge.

"How does it fit?" he inquired anxiously

"It is without doubt large at present for m'sieu, but m'sieu has been
ill. After a while it will fit better."

"And how do you think I look in it?" he continued, gazing with
fringeless expressionless eyes on her vacant but concerned countenance.
"You see, to meet these gentlemen I must at least try to appear as well
as they do. A Sieur de Clairville must guard the appearance at all
costs! Where is my sister, Pauline-Archange--why does she not come and
assist me in the entertainment of the Court? Of the Court, do I say?"

Here Clairville drew himself up as well as he could, and winking at his
nurse gravely informed her that the most Christian King, Louis of
France, being in North America for the good of his health, might call
at the manor to see its master at any moment.

"If you will be very secret, my good woman, I will tell you this
further, but it must be between us only--His Most Christian Majesty of
France is just recovering from the 'Pic'. But do not alarm yourself; I
have not been with him much. Fear not, madame, neither for yourself
nor me."

Madame clasped her hands and looked upwards; she seemed to be crying,
and yet she shed no tears. She knew there was something wrong. _She_
was wrong. The Sieur de Clairville was wrong. The old habit of
prayer, fervid, poetic, Catholic prayer, asserted itself and
accordingly the mystic rosary of Our Lady returned to her.

"_Priez pour nous, sainte Mere de Dieu. Mere aimable, priez pour nous.
Mere adorable, priez pour nous. Vierge puissante, priez! Vierge
fidele, priez pour nous. Rose mysterieuse, priez pour nous. Maison
d'or, Etoile du matin, priez pour nous. Sante des infirmes, priez pour
nous._"

Henry Clairville listened. Gradually he sank into the chair, and the
tears, the slow, painful, smarting tears of weak mind and middle
age--coursed down his thin, pitted cheeks. Madame sat down too and
sobbed.

"Oh, have I offended you, m'sieu? Why did I pray? What makes us pray
at all? Is there One who hears a poor woman like me? But she might
hear you, m'sieu, a grand gentleman like you--and so I prayed."

"A grand gentleman! Thank you--madame, thank you," said he, trembling.
"I believe I am that, or I was once. I have been very ill, I see. You
must not take any notice if I go a little out of my head; it is
nothing; Pauline is well accustomed to it, and so may you be