Who cannot conceive the consternation of Gaston de Bois when he learned that Madame de Gramont had resolved to return to Brittany with her son, and that Bertha had promised to accompany them? The countess sat looking at him with a species of savage triumph; for since he had become Madeleine's champion, she had treated him with pointed coldness. Gentle and sympathetic as his affianced bride was in general, she seemed for once to be insensible to the wound she had inflicted, and gave no sign of wavering in her resolution.

The next morning she was on her way to Madeleine's, accompanied by her maid. M. de Bois joined them as soon as they were out of sight of the hotel. How suddenly Bertha's soft heart must have become fossilized! for, although his heavy eyes and disturbed mien bore witness to the sleepless night he had passed, she did not appear to notice any change in his appearance.

"Bertha," he said, reproachfully, "you cannot be so cruel,—so ungenerous! You will not leave me and return to Brittany with your aunt, instead of giving me the right to detain you!"

"It's very hard-hearted," replied Bertha, tantalizingly; "but I have promised my aunt to accompany her, and I, cannot break my word."

"But your promise to me?"

"I hope to keep that, in good time, when the conditions are fulfilled."

"But you link that promise with conditions which may never be fulfilled,—never!"

"Then we must be happy as we are," said Bertha, naÏvely.

Bertha's obstinacy was surprising in one of her malleable, easily influenced character; but it seemed prompted by an instinctive belief that Gaston would be forced to make some exertion,—take some steps (their nature Bertha did not define to herself) which would result in bringing about Madeleine's happiness, and in promoting her union with her unknown lover. This one idea had taken such full possession of Bertha's brain that it could not be dislodged, and all Gaston's fervent entreaties that she would not let his happiness depend upon such an unlikely contingency were fruitless.

"Then I have but one alternative," said Gaston, at last. "I will resign my secretaryship and accompany you to Brittany. You cannot imagine that I would let you go without me?"

Bertha did not say how much pleasure this suggestion gave her; but the glad radiance in her blue eyes told she had been unexpectedly spared one half the sacrifice which she had determined to make, if necessary.

When Madeleine learned from Gaston the proposed departure of the countess and her family, a death-like pallor suddenly overspread her countenance, and she gasped out faintly, "All,—all going?"

"Dear, dear Madeleine," cried Bertha, "do not look so; you frighten me. It's very sad to leave you in this strange land alone. It depends upon you to keep two of us near you,—I mean M. de Bois and myself."

Bertha's words imparted no consolation.

"If you would but unravel this mystery, Madeleine?" Bertha went on. "It depends upon you and you only, to bind me here. When you are ready to stand before the altar with the one you have so long loved, so shall I be! Yes, though it were to-morrow."

"Bertha," answered Madeleine with such sad solemnity that for the first time Bertha's hope that her ardent desire might be accomplished was chilled, "you do not know what an,—an almost impossibility you are asking. Believe me, when I tell you, in all seriousness, that I shall never stand before the altar as a bride. An insurmountable barrier forbids! I shall live on,—work on, alone,—finding consolation in the certainty that I am acting wisely, and bearing bravely what must be endured. Will not this declaration convince you that you have decided rashly, not to say cruelly, in making your wifehood dependent upon mine?"

Bertha shook her head pertinaciously: "No—no—no! If I were to yield I should have to relinquish my last hope of seeing you a bride. I do not mean to yield! You need not persuade me; nor you either, M. de Bois. I am as obstinate as the de Gramonts themselves; and yet, in this instance, I think I am more reasonable in my firmness."

Madeleine and Gaston did not forego entreaties in spite of this assertion; but they had no effect upon Bertha, though she was thankful to be relieved from their importunities by the entrance of Maurice. Neither Madeleine nor Gaston felt disposed, in his hearing, to run the risk of making Bertha repeat her desire that Madeleine should become a bride. Madeleine roused herself that Maurice might not perceive her sadness, and made an effort to speak of the proposed voyage as a settled plan. The gloom of Maurice was not diminished by her attempt. He would have been less chagrined if he had seen the emotion which her pallid cheeks betrayed when the intelligence of their approaching departure was communicated to her. Ungenerous manhood! he would have suffered less had he known that she whom he loved suffered also!

Later in the day, as he was slowly walking toward the hotel, plunged in one of those despondent moods to which he had been subject before his sojourn in America, he was roused by a clear, ringing voice, though so long unheard, still familiar, and ever pleasant to his ears.

"Maurice!"

"Ronald! There is not a man in the world I would rather have seen!"

"And you are the very man I was seeking. I came to Washington on purpose to see you," replied the young artist, who had exerted so strong an influence over the character of Maurice in other days, and who had done so much toward "shaping his destiny."

Ronald was somewhat changed; the rich coloring of his handsome face had paled, or been bronzed over; a few lightly traced, but expressive lines were chronicles of mental struggles, and told that he had thought and suffered. There was more contemplation and less gayety in the brilliant brown eyes; more reflective composure and less impulsive buoyancy in his demeanor. Heretofore his bearing, language, whole aspect had ever communicated the impression of possible power; now it bespoke power confirmed and concentrated, and brought into living action.

The friendship of Maurice and Ronald had not grown cold during the years they had been separated. They had corresponded regularly; their interest in each other, their affection for each other had deepened and strengthened with every year, as all emotions which have their root in the spirit must deepen and strengthen,—the elements of progress being inseparable from those affections which draw their existence from this life-source.

Maurice, during his sojourn in Charleston, had paid weekly visits to Ronald's parents, usually spending his Sundays beneath their hospitable roof; and this made the day a true Sabbath to him. During the two months he had passed in Washington, Maurice had only written brief letters to Mrs. Walton; for the rapid succession of exciting events had engrossed his time, though it could not make him forget one who was ever ready with her sympathy and counsel. Her replies also had been curtailed by the all-absorbing joy of welcoming her son after his long absence.

The young artist had now achieved an enviable reputation as a painter. His first works were characterized by a towering ambition in their conception, which his unpractised execution could not fitly illustrate; but they had disappointed no one so much as himself. After many struggles against a sense of discouragement, inseparable from high aspirations, frustrated for the moment, he had broken out of his chrysalis state of imperfect action, and spread his wings in strong and serious earnest. His sensitive perception of the great and beautiful, allied to the creative power of genius soon blazoned his prodigal gifts to the world, and he had gloried in that sense of might which makes the true artist feel he has a giant's strength for good or evil.

"I have rejoiced over your new laurels!" exclaimed Maurice, warmly; for he had learned Ronald's distinction through the journals of the day.

"They are so intangible," replied Ronald, smiling, "that I'm not quite sure of their existence. I did not tell you that my father and mother are here and most anxious to see you. When will you pay them a visit? Can you not come with me now?"

Maurice gladly consented to accompany his friend.

"You are our chief attraction to Washington," continued Ronald. "My mother was the first to propose that we should seek you out. Your letters were so sad, and even confused, that she felt you needed her. I think she fancies she has two sons, Maurice."

"She is the only mother I have ever known," answered Maurice; "and life is incomplete when a mother's place is unfilled in the soul."