Madeleine was accustomed to see Maurice at a certain hour every day, and looked forward to that period with such joyous expectation that a sense of disquiet, amounting to positive pain, took possession of her mind when the time passed without his making his appearance. She could not help reflecting how sad and long the days would grow when she could no more listen for his welcome step, and feel her heart bounding at the sight of his handsome countenance; and yet such days must come, and must be borne with the rest of life's burdens.

That was his ring at the bell,—those were his firm, rapid steps! His face glowed so brightly when he entered the little boudoir that Madeleine exclaimed,—

"Your father must be much better! You carry the news written in shining characters in your eyes."

Maurice related what had passed between himself and Mr. Emerson, to whom he had just paid the promised visit, and concluded by saying,—

"Now, dearest Madeleine, I am enabled to repay your most opportune loan, but not able to tell you from what misery and disgrace you saved me."

He laid a check upon the table as he spoke.

Madeleine was silent, and looked uncomfortable. Maurice went on,—

"You cannot conceive my happiness at being so unexpectedly able to pay this debt, though that of gratitude must ever remain uncancelled."

"At least, Maurice, I will not deprive you of the happiness, since it is one; and perhaps you will be more pleased when you know that this money will enable me to make the last payment upon this house, which will now become wholly mine. It has grown more dear to me than I imagined it could ever become,—more dear through the guests whom it has sheltered, and the associations with which it is filled. I never thought of making it mine with so much joy."

"You will remain here then? You will continue your occupation?" asked Maurice.

"Yes, undoubtedly."

"But," persisted Maurice, "do you not look forward to a time when you will have another home?"

"I see no such time in the dim future," she returned. "Perhaps I may become so rich that the temptation to retire will be very great; but as I cannot live unemployed I shall first be obliged to discover some other, wider, and nobler sphere of usefulness."

"But the home I mean," continued Maurice, with an air of desperation, "is the home of another,—the home of one whom you love. Do you not look forward to dwelling in such a home?"

Madeleine's "No" was uttered in a low tone, but one of unmistakable sincerity.

"How can that be?" exclaimed Maurice, at once troubled and relieved.

"Do not try to read the riddle, Maurice. You will be happier in setting it aside as one of life's mysteries which will be revealed in the great day. Will you listen to a new song which I have been learning?"

"Will I listen? Will a hungry beggar gather the crumbs falling from a rich man's table?"

Madeleine laughed and seated herself at the piano. The new song only made Maurice desire to hear some of the old ones, and then other new ones, and she sang on until an unexpected and startling interruption destroyed all the harmony of the hour. But that occurrence we will relate in due season. We must first return to the hotel which Maurice had left before his usual hour, that he might pay a visit to Mr. Emerson previous to calling upon Madeleine.

The palatable delicacies which Madeleine daily sent to the invalids always reached the hotel at an hour when Maurice had promised to be at home. Robert had strict orders to deliver the salver to one of the hotel servants, and never to appear before the countess. This morning, however, the arrival of a large number of travellers had occupied all the domestics; not a waiter was to be found. Robert was anxious to inquire about a silver milk-jug which had not been returned. He carried his salver to the door of Madame de Gramont's drawing-room, though without intending to enter. The door happened to be open; he could see that the room was only occupied by Count Tristan, who was asleep in his arm-chair, and Mrs. Lawkins. She was the person whom he wished to see. The temptation was too great to be resisted. He entered with soundless feet, and placed upon the table a salver bearing a bowl of beef tea, two glasses of calves'-feet jelly, a plate of those Normandy cakes which the countess had so much relished, and a dish of superb white and red raspberries.

Approaching his mouth to Mrs. Lawkins' ear, Robert said, in a whisper,—

"Mrs. Lawkins, I had to come in, for you were just the person I wanted to see. You never sent back the silver milk-pitcher."

"The milk-pitcher?" replied Mrs. Lawkins. "Bless my heart! You don't say so? It's not here! I hope it's not been stolen. It must have got mixed up with the hotel silver and gone downstairs."

"You'll be sure to hunt it up, Mrs. Lawkins. I have said nothing to Mademoiselle Melanie,—Mademoiselle Madeleine, I mean; but I am responsible, as you know, for all her silver, and I can't have what I bring here mislaid; as you were here I thought it was quite safe. How is the poor gentleman?"

"Ah, not so well as he was under Mademoiselle Madeleine's care. I'll see after the silver jug, and keep a sharp look-out for the silver in future."

Robert and Mrs. Lawkins stood with their backs to the door of Madame de Gramont's apartment, which opened into the drawing-room. What was their consternation on finding the countess herself standing in the door-way! Her countenance was perfectly appalling in its white, distorted wrath. She strode toward the two abashed domestics, and cried out, in a voice which broke the count's slumbers, and caused him to sit up in his chair with terror-dilated eyes,—

"Woman! What is the meaning of this? Of whom are you talking? Whose silver is that?" (pointing savagely to the salver.) "And who are you?"

Mrs. Lawkins was dumb.

"Am I to be answered?" demanded the countess, imperiously.

Then she turned to Robert. "Whose silver is that? Whose silver did you say was missing?"

"Mademoiselle de Gramont's," Robert faltered out.

"And Mademoiselle de Gramont has the unparalleled audacity to send her silver here for my use? Do you mean to tell me that this salver and what it contains are from her?"

Robert could not answer.

"Great heaven! that I should endure this! That Madeleine de Gramont should have the insolence to force her bounty by stealth upon me, and that I should not have suspected her at once! Remove that salver out of my sight, and if you ever dare"—

Mrs. Lawkins had now partially recovered her self-possession, and interrupted the countess politely but very firmly,—

"Madame, you will do M. de Gramont great injury. Do you not see that you are exciting him by this violence?"

"Who are you that you dare dictate to me? Leave this house instantly! Were you sent here by Mademoiselle de Gramont to institute an espionage over me and my family? Go and tell your mistress that neither she nor anything that belongs to her shall ever again defile my dwelling! I shall watch better in future! I will not be snared by her low arts, her contemptible impostures!"

Mrs. Lawkins, though she was a mild woman, loved Madeleine too well to hear her mentioned disrespectfully without being roused to indignation; affection for her mistress overcame her awe of the countess, and she replied with feeling,—

"She is the noblest lady that ever walked the earth to bless it! and her only art is the practise of goodness! Those who are turning upon her and reviling her ought to be on their knees before her this blessed moment! Didn't she nurse that poor gentleman night and day, as though he had been her own father? Did she not bear all the slights put upon her by those who are not half as good as she?—yes, that are not worthy to wipe the dust from her holy feet, for all their pride? Didn't it almost break her heart when they forced the poor sick gentleman out of her house, to cage him in this cold, dreary place, where his own mother takes about as much care and notice of him as though he were a Hindoo or a Hottentot!" (Mrs. Lawkins was not strong in comparisons.) "And don't he mourn the night through for Mademoiselle Madeleine, crying out for her to come to him, as, I warrant, he never did for his mother? And isn't that mother murdering him at this very moment?"

"Leave the house! Leave the house!" cried the countess, in a voice that had lost all its commanding dignity, through rage. "Leave the house, I say! Do you dare to stand in my presence after such insolence?"

"Yes, madame I dare!" replied Mrs. Lawkins, coolly. "I am not afraid of a marble figure, even though it has a tongue; and there's not more soul in you than in a piece of marble; there's nothing but stone where your heart should be; but even stone will break with a hard enough blow, and perhaps you will get such a one before you die."

"Go! I say, go!" vociferated the countess, pointing to the door. "Am I to be obeyed?"

"No, madame!" replied Mrs. Lawkins, undaunted. "Not until I receive the orders of M. Maurice de Gramont. He placed me here, and here I shall stay until I have his leave to resign my duties."

Count Tristan had caught his attendant's hand when he conceived the idea that she was to be sent away from him, and when she refused to leave him, he pressed it approvingly.

"I am mistress here!" said the countess, with something of her former grandeur of bearing. "M. Maurice de Gramont has no authority to engage or discharge domestics, or to give any orders that are not mine. I will have none of Mademoiselle de Gramont's spies placed about my person! Go and tell her so, and say that after this last outrage, I will never see her face again. Would that I might never hear her name! She has been my curse,—my misery; she shall never cross my path more!"

The count rose up as if sudden strength were miraculously infused into his limbs; he raised both his arms toward heaven, and wailed out, "O Lord God, bless her! bless her! Madeleine! Good angel! Madeleine!"

The next moment he fell forward senseless and rolled to the ground.

The countess was stupefied;—she could not speak, or stoop, or stir.

The alarmed house-keeper knelt beside him. Robert hastily set down the salver and lent his assistance. They lifted the count and laid him upon the sofa. The instant Mrs. Lawkins saw his face, and the foam issuing from his lips, she exclaimed,—

"It is another fit! It is his second stroke! Lord have mercy upon him! and upon you," she continued, turning to the countess, solemnly; "for, if he dies, so sure as there is a heaven above us, you have killed your own son!"

The countess' look of horror softened the kindly house-keeper, in spite of her just wrath, and she added, "He may recover,—he has great strength. Robert, run quickly for Dr. Bayard."

Then she unfastened the patient's cravat and dashed cold water upon his head, and chafed his hands, while his mother, slowly awakening from her state of stupefaction, drew near, and bent over him. But not a finger did she raise to minister to him; she would not have known what to do, so little were her hands accustomed to ministration,—so seldom had they been stretched out to perform the slightest service for any one, even her own son.

We left Madeleine chasing away all heaviness from the soul of Maurice by her sweet singing. She was still at the piano, and he still hanging over her, when Robert burst into the room. He was a man almost stolid in his quietude, and his hurried entrance, and agitated manner, were sufficient to terrify Maurice and Madeleine before he spoke.

"Mademoiselle, it was my fault! Oh, if I had been more careful to obey your orders it would never have happened!"

His contrition was so deep that he could not proceed.

"Has Madame de Gramont discovered who sent the salver?" asked Madeleine, with an air of vexation.

"That's not the worst, Mademoiselle. The countess has found out how Mrs. Lawkins came there. She overheard us talking about the milk-jug I missed. Madame de Gramont was very violent; she said such things of you, Mademoiselle, that Mrs. Lawkins, who loves you like her own, couldn't stand it, and gave her a bit of her mind, and M. de Gramont was roused up also; he wouldn't hear you spoken against; he took on so it caused him another attack; down he dropped like dead!"

"My father,—he has been seized again, and"—Maurice did not finish his sentence, but caught up his hat.

"I've been for the doctor, sir," said Robert; "he's there by this time."

Maurice was out of the room, and hurrying toward the street door; Madeleine sprang after him.

"Maurice! Maurice! Stay one moment! Oh, if I could be near your father,—if I could see him! My imprudence has been the cause of this last stroke; yet I feel that he would gladly have me near him."

"He would indeed, my best Madeleine; but, my grandmother, alas! I have no hope of moving her."

"If her son were dying," persisted Madeleine, "her heart might be softened. If he asked for me, she might let me come to him; it would soothe him perhaps, and how it would comfort me! I shall be at the hotel nearly as soon as you are. I will wait in my carriage until you come to me and tell me how he is. Perhaps I may be permitted to enter if he asks for me. Do not forget that I am there."

Did Maurice ever forget her, for a single moment?

As soon as Madeleine's carriage could be brought to the door she followed her cousin.

It was perhaps surprising that she was moved with so much sympathy for one whom she not only had good reason to dislike, but toward whom she had formerly experienced an unconquerable repugnance; but, with spirits chastened and purified, as hers had been, a tenderness is always kindled toward those whom they are permitted to serve. The very office of ministration (the office of angels), softens the heart, and substitutes pity for loathing, the strong inclination to regenerate for the spirit of condemnation. While Madeleine was daily ministering to the count, she found herself becoming attached to him, and, with little effort of volition, she blotted the past from her own memory.

The action of Count Tristan's mind had been peculiar; when the discovery of his dishonorable manoeuvring caused him a shock which planted the first seeds of his present malady,—when he had fallen into the depths of despair,—it was Madeleine's hand that raised him up, that saved him from disgrace, and saved his son from being the innocent participator of that shame. For the first time in his life a strong sense of gratitude was awakened in his breast. Again, it was through Madeleine that the votes of so much importance to him, and which he had believed unattainable, were procured; she stood before him for the second time in the light of a benefactress. He had been seized with apoplexy while conversing with her; when reason was dimly restored, his mind went back to his last conscious thought, and that had been of her,—hence his immediate recognition of her alone. Her patient, gentle, tender care had impressed him with reverence; he was magnetized by her sphere of unselfishness, forgiveness and goodness, and some of the hardnesses of his own nature were melted away.

Count Tristan had practised deception until he had nearly lost all belief in the truth and purity of others,—had apparently grown insensible to all holy influences. Yet the daily contemplation of a character which bore witness to the existence of the most heavenly attributes silently undermined his cold scepticism, and tacitly contradicted and disproved his creed that duplicity and selfishness were universal characteristics of mankind,—a creed usually adopted by him who sees his fellow-men in the mirror which reflects his own image. Madeleine had discovered some small, not yet tightly closed avenue to Count Tristan's soul. Her toiling, pardoning, helping, holy spirit had done more to lift him out of the bondage of his evil passions than could have been affected by any other human agency.