became very cross and fault-finding, so that
the Sister Sainte Agathe called him a
great idiot—for which she had to say two
aves, and the litany of Sainte Vierge at four
o'clock in the morning, and to have only
bread and vegetables—no eggs—on a Friday.
He told her that she did not take enough
care of Mademoiselle Marie; and that he
was not always sure that his potions were
given at the right moment, or his cataplasms
taken off when he ordered. It was frightful
and desolating, and he wished they had a
nurse with a little less religion, and a little
more good sense. He had a great respect and
a high consideration for the sisters of charity;
but the ecclesiastical exercises of some among
them were sadly in a doctor's way. The
Sister, who was a heavy woman, and who
had become a sister more for a profession
than from any religious conviction, promised
to herself not to forget what M. Adolphe
said; and, with true woman's tact, appeared
to have buried everything in oblivion, but was
watching eagerly for her hour of retribution.

Marie did not die. M. Adolphe's prescriptions
did her no harm, if they did her no good;
and sister Agathe hung round her neck three
little medals blessed by the pope; which she
said would preserve her. And, when Marie
was pronounced out of danger, she told her
that the medallions had saved her, not the
doctor. Marie wondered which it was, but
the Curé said it was neither: the masses in
St. Philippe had done all. Marie believed
each in turn, and ended by a mixture of the
whole.

"You are better, Mademoiselle ?" said M.
Adolphe. And Marie looked up and smiled.
This was her second day of getting up.

"Yes," she said, "I am almost well."

"Not quite yet. You cannot dispense with
my visits for some time to come. Unless you
wish it, Mademoiselle ?" He was rather
pale as he spoke.

"I do not want you to leave me, Monsieur.
When you have left me I shall be very dull
and lonely." And Marie turned to him affectionately,
like a child.

The Sister woke up from a doze. It was
after dinner, and she had been asleep. The
Sister always went to sleep after dinner —
especially on meat days.

"Madame, your hour of prayer has come,"
said M. Adolphe.

The watch on the chimney-piece pointed to
the hour. The one in M. Adolphe's pocket
was half-an-hour behind.

"I did not think it was so late!" exclaimed
the Sister, shuffling about the room.
"And you, Monsieur?"

"And I remain with Mademoiselle."

The Sister Sainte Agathe was disturbed.

"And you remain, Monsieur?"

"Why yes, Madame! It is necessary."

"But not proper, Monsieur."

"Suffer me to attend to my patient according
to my own ideas, Madame."

"Certainly, Monsieur; but I shall send in
the servant."

M. Adolphe looked annoyed. But French
convenance put its iron claw on him, and he
was obliged to submit.

"Certainly, Madame. Send in Josephine."

So the Sister went away, and Josephine
came in with her work. She was embroidering
a cap, and doing it very well.

"Josephine, my child, is the dose of lime
flowers prepared?" asked M. Adolphe.
Josephine was a tall, elegant, black-eyed
Parisian girl, a terrible thief, but very complaisant.

"No, Monsieur, but I will go and prepare
it immediately."

Josephine retired from the room, with a
glance at Marie from her broad bold eyes
that told volumes. But M. Adolphe was
looking at Marie, and Marie was looking on
the ground, and neither of them saw her.

M. Adolphe was feeling Marie's pulse.
The pulse was quick, and the bright fever
spots in her cheeks were very red. M.
Adolphe mixed some orange flower with
sugared water, and gave it to her.

"You are still nervous, Mademoiselle."

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And your head is hot."

He put his hand on her forehead.

"It does not ache now, Monsieur."

"Is my hand cool ?"

She placed her hand upon his and pressed
it against her brow eagerly.

"Yes," she said, " it does me good!"

M. Adolphe became suddenly eloquent and
excited. "It does you good," he said, "because
I wish to do you good: because I pour
out my soul in every breath, in every word,
in every look and touch: because I have
transfused my life into your sinking heart,
and made you mine by this gift of strength
and health: because I love you better than
my own soul. That is why I do you good."

"You love me, then!" half sobbed Marie,
"and it is your love that has cured me!"

And for further expression of gratitude
and joy the poor child—weakened and feeble
in spite of M. Adolphe's boast—burst into
tears, and sobbed as if she had been struck
by a misfortune. The stone was cast into the
water, and the still lake woke up into a
stormy sea, where would be peace and quiet
no more.

It was very imprudent of M. Adolphe to
make this declaration to a girl lying on the
outskirts of a bad fever, when a very small
excitement would have thrown her back into
the danger from which she had just escaped.
But with all his goodness—and he was dearly
good—M. Adolphe was both impetuous and
unreflecting, and had never accustomed himself
to command an impulse, whatever it
might be. However, he did not work much
mischief; for Marie's happiness buoyed her
up over the dangerous excitement; and,
although she suffered from a temporary