"Take care! the 'Don' will be jealous!" exclaimed Mr. Walton, as he witnessed his wife's greeting of Maurice,—a greeting as tender as a true mother could have bestowed. "When Ronald was a boy he would rush about like one gone mad if his mother ever ventured to take another child upon her knee,—he would never have his throne usurped. Our 'Don' was always 'monarch of all he surveyed.'"

This jocular appellation of the 'Don,' Mr. Walton had bestowed upon his son on account of his early propensity to fight moral windmills, and the Quixotic zeal with which he espoused the cause of the weak and the fair. This knight-errant proclivity ripened from the Quixotism of boyhood into the chivalrous devotion which had manifested itself in his somewhat romantic friendship for Maurice,—a friendship productive of such happy results to the young viscount.

Ronald replied, "My affection has gained a victory over my jealousy, as Maurice discovered some years ago. I have just given him a new evidence of that fact by accompanying you and my mother to Washington in the hope of seeing him."

"Did you really come for my sake," asked Maurice, much moved.

Mrs. Walton answered, "How could we help being distressed about you? Your letters were so unsatisfactory. I shall know more of your true state in one tÊte-À-tÊte,—one good long heart-talk,—than I could learn by a thousand letters."

After this declaration, Ronald and his father jestingly pronounced themselves de trop and departed.

Maurice had long since given Mrs. Walton his full confidence, and now to sit and relate the events that had transpired during his stay in Washington was a heart-unburthening which lightened his oppressed spirit. It seemed to him as though some ray of hope must break through the clouds which enveloped him, if her clear, steady vision closely scanned their blackness; she might discover some gleam of light which he could not perceive.

When he finished the narrative she asked,—

"And have you no suspicion who this mysterious lover can be? No clue to his identity?"

"Not the faintest," answered Maurice.

"But since you have seen Madeleine at all hours of the day, since you have resided in her house, she could not have evinced a preference for any gentleman without your perceiving the distinction."

"She evinced no preferences; no gentleman was upon an intimate footing except M. de Bois, who is engaged to Bertha, much to Madeleine's delight."

"M. de Bois, you tell me," continued Mrs. Walton, "has been her devoted friend during all these years that she has been separated from you. Have you not been able to learn something from him?"

"I have too much respect for Madeleine to force from another a secret which she refuses to impart to me; but I am quite certain that if M. de Bois knows whom Madeleine has blessed with her love, Bertha is still in ignorance. Bertha would have told me at once."

Mrs. Walton mused awhile, then said, "I do not see any loose thread by which the mystery can be unravelled; but you will, of course, make me acquainted with your Madeleine?"

"My Madeleine," began Maurice, bitterly.

"I called her yours involuntarily, because your heart seems so wholly to claim her. She will receive me,—will she not?"

"Gladly, I am sure."

"Then we will go to-morrow."

There were too many chords of sympathy which vibrated responsively in the bosoms of Mrs. Walton and Madeleine, too many planes upon which they could meet, for them to remain merely formal acquaintances. It was Madeleine's nature to treat those with whom she was thrown in contact with a genial courtesy which rose to kindness, often to affection; but it was only to a few that she really threw wide the portals of her large heart. Mrs. Walton's devotion to Maurice was claim enough for her to be ranked among the small number whom Madeleine admitted to that inner sanctuary.

On the other hand, Mrs. Walton was by no means impulsive in forming friendships; her existence had been brightened by very few. She had much constitutional reticence; she enjoyed a secluded life; she was not dependent upon others for happiness. A rich, inexhaustible well-spring of joy,—the one joy of her days,—flowed in through her son, and that pure fount was all-sufficient to water the flowers that sprang in her path. Maurice had awakened her womanly compassion, first, because Ronald had found in him a brother; next, because he was motherless and almost heart-broken, and finally, because his noble attributes won her admiring affection. But, although Mrs. Walton had no facility in making friendships, when she did become attached, it was with a sympathetic and absolute devotion which extended itself involuntarily to the beings who were dear to those she loved; thus her attachment for Maurice awakened an affection for Madeleine before they met; and when she clasped Madeleine's hand, and looked into her fair face, the reserve she invariably experienced toward strangers at once melted away, and in their very first interview these two responsive spirits drew near to each other with a mutual sense that their intercourse must become closer and closer.

Madeleine had frequently seen Ronald when, habited as the soeur de bon secours, she kept nightly vigil by the bed of Maurice, and Ronald had marked the classic features of the "holy sister," and quickly recognized them again when he was presented to Mademoiselle de Gramont.

After Mrs. Walton had visited Madeleine, Ronald persuaded her to call with him on Mademoiselle de Merrivale. Bertha received her quondam partner of the dance with much warmth and vivacity; but the countess looked with freezing hauteur upon these American friends of her grandson. Though Mrs. Walton was naturally timid, she was unawed by the countess's assumption of superiority; her self-respect enabled her to remain perfectly composed and collected, and to appear unconscious of the disdain with which she was treated.

This initiative visit was quickly followed by others, and Mrs. Walton proved how little she dreaded the countess by inviting Bertha to dine with her.

"I shall be delighted to go," said Bertha, "that is, if my aunt does not object."

"Rather tardily remembered," answered the countess, with acerbity.

"Better late than never," retorted Bertha, gayly; "so, my dear aunt, you will not say 'No.'"

The countess would gladly have found some reason for refusing, but none presented itself, and Bertha was sufficiently self-willed to dispute her authority; it was therefore impolitic to make an open objection.

M. de Bois also received an invitation. Maurice and Madeleine joined the little circle in the evening,—a delightful surprise to Bertha and Gaston. This was the first evening that Madeleine had passed out of her own dwelling during her residence in America. She had necessarily renounced society when she adopted a vocation incompatible with her legitimate social position; but, on this occasion, she could not resist Mrs. Walton's persuasions, and perhaps the promptings of her own inclination.

Once more Madeleine's vocal powers were called into requisition. She was ever ready to contribute her mite (so she termed it) toward the general entertainment, and she would have despised the petty affectation of pretended reluctance to draw forth entreaty, or give value to her performance. Her voice had never sounded more touchingly, mournfully pathetic, and her listeners hung entranced upon the sounds. Maurice drank in every tone, and never moved his eyes from her face; but when the soft cadences sank in silence, what a look of anguish passed over his manly features, and told that the sharp bayonet of his life-sorrow pierced him anew. He turned involuntarily toward Mrs. Walton, and met a look of sympathy not wholly powerless to soothe.

Mr. Walton was loud in his praises of Madeleine's vocalization; he had a courtier's felicity in expressing admiration, never more genuine than on the present occasion.

"We must not be so ungrateful as to forget to offer Mademoiselle de Gramont the only return in our power, however far it may fall short of what she merits," said he; "the 'Don' here, does not sing; he is not a poet even, except in soul, and all his inspirations flow through his brush; but he interprets poets with an art which I think is hardly less valuable than the poet's own divine afflatus."

Madeleine, delighted, seized upon the suggestion, and solicited Ronald to favor the company. His mother placed in his hands a volume of Mrs. Browning's poems, and he turned to that surpassingly beautiful romance, "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."

Ronald was one of those rare readers gifted with the power of filling, at pleasure, the poet's place, or of embodying the characters which he delineated. The young artist's rich, sonorous voice; obeyed his will, and was modulated to express every variety of emotion, while his animated countenance glowed, flushed, paled, grew radiant or clouded, with the scene he described. A master-spirit playing upon a thoroughly comprehended instrument manifested itself in his rendition of the author.

All eyes were riveted upon him as he read; he possessed in an eminent degree the faculty of magnetizing his hearers, taking them captive for the time being, and bearing them, as upon a rising or falling wave, whither he would. As the tale progressed, the silence grew deeper, and, save Ronald's voice, not a sound was to be heard, except, now and then, a quickened breath and Bertha's low sobbing; for she wept as though Bertram had been one whom she had known.

Mrs. Walton's eyes had been fixed upon her son, with an expression of ineffable soul-drawn delight; but, just before the poem drew to a close, they stole around the circle to note the effect produced by his masterly reading upon others. Every face mirrored such emotions as the poem might have awakened in minds capable of appreciating the noble and beautiful; but by Madeleine's countenance she was forcibly struck; a marble pallor overspread her visage, her eyes were strangely dilated and filled with moisture; if the lids for a moment had closed, the "silver tears" must have run down her cheeks as freely as ran Lady Geraldine's; but, when Ronald came to that passage where Lady Geraldine thrills Bertram with joy by the confession that it was him whom she loved,—though he had never divined that love,—him only! Madeleine's lips quivered, and, with a sudden impulse, which defied control, she covered her face with her hands as though she dreaded that her heart might be perused in her countenance. It was an involuntary action, repented of as soon as made, for she withdrew the hands immediately, but the spontaneous movement spoke volumes.

As Mrs. Walton watched her, a sudden flash of clairvoyance revealed a portion of the truth, and she ejaculated, mentally,—

"The man whom Madeleine loves is unaware of her love, as Bertram was of Lady Geraldine's."

This suggestion, born in the under-current of her thoughts, floated constantly to the surface awaiting confirmation. If her belief were well-grounded, one step was taken toward fathoming the secret which Madeleine had doubtless some motive for preserving, but which Mrs. Walton's sympathies with Maurice made her earnestly desire to bring to light. Madeleine might have conceived a passion for one whom she would never more meet, or for one who was unconscious of her preference, though that seemed hardly possible.

Under ordinary circumstances Mrs. Walton would have been one of the last persons to take an active part in searching out the hidden springs of any human actions; but she was so deeply interested, both in Maurice and Madeleine, that a strong desire to be of service to them made her break one of the rules of her life. A wise rule, perhaps, so far as it frees one from responsibility, yet a rule which generous and impulsive spirits will often disregard in the hope of wafting into a drooping sail some favorable breeze that will send the ship toward a wished-for port.

It chanced the very next day, when Mrs. Walton was visiting Madeleine, that the latter was summoned away, and as she left the room, she said,—

"I will not be long absent; here are books with which I hope you can amuse yourself."

They had been sitting in Madeleine's boudoir; Mrs. Walton's chair was close to Madeleine's desk; upon the desk lay several volumes, probably those which had been last in use. Mrs. Walton made a haphazard selection, and took up a little sketch-book. Her interest was quickly awakened when she found that it contained sketches which were doubtless Madeleine's own. There was the chÂteau of Count Tristan de Gramont at Rennes, and the memorable little chÂlet—the chÂteau of the Marquis de Merrivale, and sketches of other localities in her native land, of which she had thus preserved the memory. Then followed fancy groups, composed of various figures, apparently illustrative of scenes from books; but Mrs. Walton could not be certain of the unexplained subjects.

One familiar face struck her,—a most perfect likeness of Maurice,—it was unmistakable. Prominent in every group, though in different attitudes and costumes, was that one figure. Maurice,—still Maurice, throughout the book. Mrs. Walton was pondering upon this singular discovery when Madeleine entered.

She flushed crimson when she saw the volume her visitor was examining, and said, in a confused tone, taking the book from Mrs. Walton's hands,—

"I thought I had locked this book in my desk; how could I have left it about? It only contains old sketches of remembered places, and similar trifles, not worth your contemplation."

"I found them very beautiful," replied Mrs. Walton, "and the likenesses of Maurice are perfect."

"Of Maurice?" was all that Madeleine could say, her agitation increasing every moment.

"Yes, I could not understand the subjects, but his face and form are admirably depicted. You have a true talent for making portraits."

Madeleine could not answer, but as Mrs. Walton glanced at her conscious and troubled countenance, woman's instinct whispered, "It is Maurice whom she loves."