Madame Le Conte was suffering from her imprudent exposure on Christmas-eve. She had taken cold, and her increased difficulty of breathing had robbed both herself and Mary of the greater part of their night’s rest.

The gift of a black silk dress and a few trinkets mollified the maid’s ill-humor, but Madame was sadly depressed in spirit.

“Go downstairs and enjoy yourself, Mary,” she said when she had sent away her almost untasted breakfast. “I’m poor company for any one, and prefer to be alone.”

“Let me read to you,” said Mary, taking a new book from the table. “This book is lively and interesting.”

“I don’t care to hear it.”

“Then here’s the morning paper.”

“Take it and read it yourself. I tell you I wish to be alone. Go! I’ll ring when I want you.” And Madame waved her hand imperiously.

She was in her dressing-room, a cheery apartment elegantly furnished with every appliance for comfort and convenience; a velvet carpet of exquisite design covered the floor, lace and damask draped the windows; one or two fine paintings adorned the delicately-tinted walls; articles of virtu were scattered here and there; everything the eye rested on was beautiful and appropriate.

Her easy chair was drawn up before the fire (she loved open fires, and had them in every room much frequented by herself), and on a costly Persian rug at her feet Frisky lay sleeping, her only companion since Mary had gone out in obedience to her order, softly closing the door behind her.

Perhaps there were few sadder hearts to-day in all the great city than that of this rich but childless and lonely woman. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, sigh after sigh heaving her bosom, and tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Remorse, remorse!” she whispered almost under her breath; “can there be anything worse? Oh, Pansy, my little Pansy! where are you? living or dead? Are you poor and suffering? Oh, come back, come back to me, and gladly, gladly will I share with you all I have!”

Covering her face with her handkerchief, she sobbed aloud, her whole frame shaking with the violence of her emotion.

This lasted several minutes; then, gradually growing calmer, she wiped away her tears, rose, went to her jewel-box, and possessing herself of the little locket she had been looking on the previous night, returned to her chair by the fire, touched the spring, and again gazed mournfully upon the pretty child-face.

She sat there for hours with the locket in her hand, sometimes looking at the picture, dropping tears upon the sweet face, pressing it to her lips; at others lying back among her cushions with closed eyes, while quick-coming memories of the past thronged through her brain.

At length Mary became alarmed, and ventured in without being summoned.

Her mistress was again gazing at the miniature, and seemed unconscious of her entrance until she stood close at her side.

“A thousand pardons for intruding upon you, Madame,” said the girl, “but I grew frightened lest you had been taken suddenly ill and were not able to ring.”

“See! look! tell me if you see any resemblance to any one,” said the Madame huskily, holding out the picture, the tears stealing down her cheeks.

“No-o, Madame,” returned the maid doubtfully, gazing upon it with some surprise that she had never been shown it before—she who had deemed herself fully acquainted with the contents of her mistress’s jewel-box.

“No?” cried the Madame irritably. “Look again. Well? Speak out; do not fear to offend.”

“That young girl we had here yesterday—”

“Well? well? go on; what of her?” asked the Madame, fairly struggling for breath in her excitement.

“I can imagine she might have looked like this years ago.”

“Yes, yes! I have thought so too;” and tears rained down the Madame’s cheeks.

Mary’s curiosity was strongly excited, but she indulged in no questions or remarks in regard to the original of the picture; she had learned long since that her mistress would tolerate no prying into the secrets of her past life. She waited a moment in silence, then said soothingly, “Come, Madame, cheer up. Just consider how much you have to make you happy. Look at this beautiful room, this grand house—all your own; your elegant dresses too; your silks and laces and jewels; your fine carriage and horses; Katty and Rory and me to wait on you, and your loads of money. Why, Madame, who would not be glad to change places with you?”

“You, Mary?” she asked, with sudden impulse, extending her maimed limb toward the girl, her breast heaving with sobs, her eyes full of passionate sorrow; “say, would you give your good right hand for all my wealth? to say nothing of my struggles for breath, and all the rest of it?”

“I—I don’t know—”

“I know you would not! Then don’t talk to me of how fortunate I am,” she said, heaving a deep sigh as she drew back the hand, laid her head against the cushions, and averted her face.

“Ah, well, Madame, none of us can have everything,” observed the girl, “and we must all make the best of our lot. There’s some that’s sick and crippled, and poor too; not a bite or sup, or fire to keep ’em warm this cold day. And we’ve everything that’s good downstairs, thanks to your generosity and your full purse. Now what will you have for dinner?”

“Dinner!” Madame turned her head away with a look and gesture of disgust as if loathing the very thought of food, and by an imperative wave of the hand indicated that it was her pleasure that her maid should consider herself dismissed from her presence.

Without another word Mary promptly left the room, but within half an hour returned, accompanied by Kathleen, the two bringing with them materials for a most tempting meal, which they quickly spread out upon the table, and presently found means to induce their mistress to eat of, with very considerable appetite.

The Madame’s mental anguish had been real, but the violence of the paroxysm was over for the time, and the long-indulged love of the pleasures of the table asserted its sway.

But the poor lady’s enjoyments were few; she was an educated but not an intellectual woman, and cared little for any books except novels of the most frivolous and sensational class; she had no friends, hardly an acquaintance in the city, having purposely avoided society from extreme sensitiveness regarding the loss of her hand—a loss which had befallen her prior to the removal of herself and husband to Chicago. And she was also a stranger to the consolations of religion.