Shortly after M. de Bois returned to the exhibition salons, Madeleine entered the workroom. Gaston could see her moving about among the young girls, distributing sketches, making smiling comments upon the occupation of this one and that; pointing out defects or praising execution. Every face seemed to brighten when it was turned toward her, and every countenance wore an unmistakable expression of affection. We might, perhaps, except that of Mademoiselle Victorine, whose high opinion of her own abilities made her somewhat jealous of Madeleine's supremacy. Yet, even she experienced an involuntary reverence for the head of the establishment, though golden dreams of some day leaping into her place were ever floating through the Frenchwoman's plotting brain.

Beside the table where Ruth was painting, Madeleine made the longest pause. She seemed disposed to converse with her young favorite; and Ruth smiled so gratefully that M. de Bois was half reconciled to the delay, though he had an important reason for wishing to exchange a few words with Madeleine as soon as possible. The interval before she passed out of the room to return to her boudoir appeared sufficiently tedious. Gaston followed her and said,—

"Will you grant me a few moments, or are you very busy this morning?"

"Busy always," replied Madeleine, extending her hand to welcome him; "but seldom too busy to lack time for my best friend. Will you come to my own little sanctum?"

The room to which Gaston followed her offered a striking contrast, in point of furniture, to those which they had just left. Madeleine's boudoir, though it had an air of inviting comfort, was adorned with almost rigid simplicity. The only approach to luxury was a tiny conservatory, she had caused to be built, rendered visible by glass doors.

Madeleine took her seat before a small rosewood table, and with a pencil in her hand, and a piece of drawing-paper before her, said, "You will not mind my sketching as we talk. I have an idea floating through my head, and I want to throw it off on paper; I can listen and answer, just as well, with my fingers occupied."

Well might Gaston contemplate her in silent and wondering admiration. Neither her countenance nor her manner betrayed any trace of the suffering she must have endured on the day previous. She seemed to have completely banished its recollection from her thoughts. M. de Bois was fearful of touching upon the subject, it seemed so wholly to have vanished from her mind; yet his errand compelled him.

"What courage, what perseverance you possess, Mademoiselle Madeleine! It is incredible,—inexplicable," he said, at last, as he watched the delicate fingers moving over the paper.

"There you err," answered Madeleine, brightly. "It is, at least, very explicable, for it is in working that I find my strength, my inspiration, my consolation! It was work, incessant work, which sustained me when I determined to take a step from which my weaker, frailer part shrank. A step which utter wretchedness first suggested to me; which seemed terribly galling, oppressively revolting; which I ventured upon with inconceivable pain. Yet, as you have seen, I was enabled, in time, to look upon that step with resignation; I afterwards contemplated it with pride; I now regard it with positive pleasure. This could never have been had I not resolved to resist all temptation to brood over grief, and turned to work as a refuge from sorrow."

"And it is really true, then, that you, a lady of noble birth, dropping from so high a sphere into one not merely humble, but laborious, find your vocation a pleasure at last."

"It is most true," said Madeleine lifting her beautiful eyes, with such a radiant expression that the genuineness of her reply could not be doubted. "When one has, for years, lived upon the bare suffrage of others, no matter how dear,—when one has had no home except that which was granted through courtesy, compassion, charity,—you cannot conceive how delicious it is to dream of independence, of a home of one's own! And this sweet dream has become reality to me more speedily and more surely than my most sanguine hopes dared to anticipate. Think, in what a rapid, an almost miraculous manner my undertaking has prospered; by what magic my former life (that of an aristocratic lady who employed herself a little, but without decided results) has been exchanged for the delights of a life of active use, bringing forth golden fruition! In a word, how suddenly my poverty has been turned to wealth,—at all events, to the certain promise of opulence. And the most delightful sense of all is the internal satisfaction of knowing that I have done this myself, unaided; save, indeed, by the kindness, the counsel, the invisible protection of such a friend as you are, and such a friend as Mr. Hilson has proved."

"We have done nothing—but watch and admire."

"Nothing?" answered Madeleine, with gentle reproach. "Who helped me carry out all my projects? When a man's hand was needed, who stretched out his? but always with such prudence and delicacy that I could not be compromised. How helpless I should have been in Paris without you! And how many mistakes might I not have committed in America without Mr. Hilson's aid! Little did he think, when he dined at the ChÂteau de Gramont, with a noble family, and asked one of its members to promise that if she ever visited America she would apprise him of her presence there,—little could he imagine how soon she would make a home in his native land, and of what inestimable aid his friendship would be to her."

"He has been truly serviceable," answered Gaston. "His advice was always good, and in nothing better than in deciding you to take this house, which you, at first thought too magnificent; he was wise, also, in persuading you to furnish it so luxuriously. He comprehended, better than you or I did, that a certain amount of pomp and show would make a desirable impression upon the inhabitants even of a republican country."

"Yes, I have cause to thank him for that counsel. And when I reflect that this house, which I at first thought too splendid, will soon become my own, I can hardly believe my good fortune. To-day, or to-morrow, I am to make the last payment of ten thousand dollars, and the house will be mine, clear of all incumbrance. I have the money ready, and probably before night it will be paid. This very morning, when I returned home, as I entered the door, I could not but pause suddenly, and say to myself, 'Is this no dream? Have I a home of my own, at last? Will this elegant mansion to-day become mine, and through the toil of'"—

"'Fairy fingers,'" interrupted Gaston.

"Something magical, I am inclined to admit," returned Madeleine, gayly. "But had it not been for the earnest counsels of Mr. Hilson, I should never have felt justified in living in my present style; he convinced me that the money I expended in surrounding myself with all the elegances of life was laid out at interest; and I suppose he is right; these elegances have perhaps drawn the rich to my door."

"What was it that drew the poor?" asked Gaston. "You have tried to keep your charities as secret from me as your noble birth was kept from others, but accident has made me acquainted with more than you are aware. I know with what liberal hands you have succored the needy."

"Those who have endured the sharp sting of poverty themselves may well feel for the poor," replied Madeleine. "And yet, I do little enough for my poor human sisters and brothers; but we are gossiping very idly. Did you not say that you particularly wished to speak to me? It was not simply to make these sage reflections, was it?"

"No; but I shrank from touching upon the subject while you seemed so serene and happy. I could not bear to recall the painful interview with your family yesterday, when they—they—they"—

"When they cast me off!—spurned me as one degraded! Do not fear to speak out. My aunt is implacable,—I might have known that she would be,—and Count Tristan is the same."

"What matter? You have no need of their affection. And yet, the day will come when they will all seek you, and be proud and glad to claim you. I say it, and I feel it!"

Madeleine shook her head.

"And they did not all throw you off. Was not Mademoiselle Bertha just what she always is? And was not Maurice,—though he appeared to be so completely overwhelmed that he could not command his voice,—was he not the same as ever?"

"Was he the same, think you?" asked Madeleine, eagerly.

"Yes, I am sure of it; and I come here to-day as his messenger,—or, rather, as the herald of his coming."

Madeleine trembled, in spite of herself. The thought of beholding Maurice once more, of conversing with him, of listening to him, affected her too strongly for her to be able even to assume indifference.

M. de Bois regarded her with an air of exultation.

"I have judged you rightly, then, and you are unchanged. Maurice is not less dear to you than"—

Madeleine's hand, appealingly lifted, checked him.

For a few moments she remained silent. When her tranquillity was somewhat restored, she said slowly, but in an altered tone,—

"You are the messenger of Maurice; what did he request you to say to me."

"He commissioned me to let you know that he earnestly desired an interview with you, at once,—and alone,—free from interruption. He entreats you to receive him to-day. I promised, as soon as I could make known to you his petition, that I would return to him with your answer;—he awaits it impatiently. What answer shall I give him?"

"He may come," answered Madeleine, in a tone of suppressed emotion.

"I will tell him that he may be here in an hour?" said Gaston interrogatively, for he saw the mighty struggle Madeleine was making to control herself, and thoughtfully desired to give her some little time for preparation.

Madeleine bowed her head in acquiescence.

Gaston had too much delicacy to prolong the conversation. He bade her adieu and at once sought Maurice.