But while I pondered, her voice, clear, though somewhat sharp, broke out in a lightsome French song, trilling through the door still ajar. I glanced in, doubting my senses. There at the table she sat in a smart dress of “jaconas rose,” trimming a tiny blond cap. Not a living thing save herself was in the room, except indeed some goldfish in a glass globe, some flowers in pots, and a broad July sunbeam.

Here was a problem; but I must go upstairs to ask about the medicine.

Dr. John sat in a chair at Georgette’s bedside; madame stood before him. The little patient had been examined and soothed, and now lay composed in her crib. Madame Beck, as I entered, was discussing the physician’s own health, remarking on some real or fancied change in his looks, charging him with overwork, and recommending rest and change of air. He listened good-naturedly, but with laughing indifference, telling her that she was trop bonne, and that he felt perfectly well. Madame appealed to me, Dr. John following her movement with a slow glance which seemed to express languid surprise at reference being made to a quarter so insignificant.

“What do you think, Miss Lucie?” asked madame. “Is he not paler and thinner?”

It was very seldom that I uttered more than monosyllables in Dr. John’s presence. He was the kind of person with whom I was likely ever to remain the neutral, passive thing he thought me. Now, however, I took license to answer in a phrase, and a phrase I purposely made quite significant. “He looks ill at this moment; but perhaps it is owing to some temporary cause. Dr. John may have been vexed or harassed.”

I cannot tell how he took this speech, as I never sought his face for information. Georgette here began to ask me in her broken English if she might have a glass of eau sucrée. I answered her in English. For the first time, I fancy, he noticed that I spoke his language. Hitherto he had always taken me for a foreigner, addressing me as “mademoiselle,” and giving in French the requisite directions about the children’s treatment. He seemed on the point of making a remark, but thinking better of it, held his tongue.

Madame recommenced advising him. He shook his head, laughing, rose and bid her good-morning, with courtesy, but still with the regardless air of one whom too much unsolicited attention was surfeiting and spoiling.

When he was gone madame dropped into the chair he had just left. She rested her chin in her hand; all that was animated and amiable vanished from her face. She looked stony and stern, almost mortified and morose. She sighed—a single, but a deep sigh. A loud bell rang for morning school. She got up. As she passed a dressing-table with a glass upon it, she looked at her reflected image. One single white hair streaked her nut-brown tresses; she plucked it out with a shudder. In the full summer daylight her face, though it still had the colour, could plainly be seen to have lost the texture of youth; and then, where were youth’s contours? Ah, madame! wise as you were, even you knew weakness. Never had I pitied madame before, but my heart softened towards her when she turned darkly from the glass. A calamity had come upon her. That hag Disappointment was greeting her with a grisly “all-hail,” and her sould rejected the intimacy.

But Rosine! My bewilderment there surpasses description. I embraced five opportunities of passing her cabinet that day, with a view to contemplating her charms, and finding out the secret of their influence. She was pretty, young, and wore a well-made dress. All very good points, and, I suppose, amply sufficient to account, in any philosophic mind, for any amount of agony and distraction in a young man like Dr. John. Still I could not help forming half a wish that the said doctor were my brother, or at least that he had a sister or a mother who would kindly sermonize him. I say half a wish; I broke it and flung it away before it became a whole one, discovering in good time its exquisite folly. “Somebody,” I argued, “might as well sermonize madame about her young physician; and what good would that do?”

I believe madame sermonized herself. She did not behave weakly, or make herself in any shape ridiculous. It is true she had neither strong feelings to overcome nor tender feelings by which to be miserably pained. It is true likewise that she had an important avocation, a real business to fill her time, divert her thoughts,