Louis found Mariette working patiently beside her godmother, who was apparently sound asleep in her bed and oblivious of her unfortunate lot for a few moments, at least.

The young man's extreme pallor, the alteration of his features and their painful expression, struck Mariette at once and filled her with grave apprehensions.

"My God! something has happened, Louis!" she cried, coming quickly toward him.

"Yes, something terrible has happened, Mariette," he said sadly. "Have you heard of the terrible accident on the Versailles road?"

"Yes, what a frightful thing! They say there was a large number of victims," she rejoined, with a shudder.

"My father was of the number," he added, simply.

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when he felt two soft arms encircle his neck and hot tears inundating his cheeks, while the young girl sobbed as though her heart would break. The two young people remained thus clasped in each other's arms for several moments without uttering a word. Louis was the first to break the painful silence.

"My darling," he said, "you know what deep affection existed between my father and myself—you can understand my despair."

"Your loss is terrible, Louis."

"Your love is my only consolation, Mariette; and I shall ask a new proof—"

"You have but to command—my heart is yours."

"We must marry within the shortest possible delay."

"Ah! Louis! can you doubt my answer for a moment? Is this the new proof of love that you ask?" she said, half reproachfully. Then, after a moment of reflection, she added sadly: "Yet we cannot marry before the end of your mourning."

"My dear Mariette, pray do not let such a scruple stand between us."

"I shall do as you wish."

"Listen, Mariette," said the young man, earnestly: "true mourning is that of the soul, and with me it will endure long beyond the time limited by society and the world in general. My heart is crushed with sorrow, and I can honor the memory of my father without conforming to customs of propriety. And believe me, my darling, a marriage contracted under the painful impressions caused by my sad loss, will appear more solemn and sacred than if contracted under other circumstances."

"You may be right, Louis; yet it is customary to wait," ventured the young girl.

"My dear Mariette, shall my father be less deeply regretted because you are my wife, and weep over his death with me, because you are wearing mourning for him and are attached to his memory by a tender link? Besides, my darling, in my grief and isolation, I cannot live without you—I would die."

"I am only a poor working girl, ignorant of the ways of the world, and can only express what I feel, Louis," rejoined Mariette, unable to resist his pleadings. "The reasons you plead for an early marriage seem good to me. I may be wrong, or I may, perhaps, be influenced by my longing to be yours; but I know that I can accede to an immediate marriage without regret or remorse. And yet, it seems to me my heart is as tender as others—"

"Yes, and more ungrateful, too!" interrupted a harsh voice; and Mme. Lacombe sat bolt upright in her bed, glaring fiercely at the astounded young couple. "Ah! yes," she went on, sarcastically, "you thought the old woman sound asleep, and took advantage of it to talk of your wedding. But I heard every word of it."

"There was not a word which you might not hear; madame," observed
Louis, gravely. "Mariette and myself retract nothing we have said."

"The deuce!—I believe it—you think of nothing but yourself. You can talk of nothing but that accursed marriage. As for me—I might as well be in my grave—"

"Allow me to interrupt you, madame," broke in Louis, "and prove that I have not forgotten my promise."

As he spoke, he took a small wooden box from the table, where he had laid it on entering, and deposited it on the bed with the key.

"Open it," he said; "all it contains is yours."

The old woman picked up the key suspiciously, opened the box and peered in.

"Great heavens!" she cried in amazement, dazzled by the glittering contents. Then plunging her hand among the shining pieces, she tossed them about, jingling them together and allowing them to slip through her fingers in a golden shower, muttering covetously:

"Ah! what gold! what gold!—all good and sound, too!—Heavens! what beautiful pieces! What a big sum they must make!"

Turning the box over, she gathered the coins into a dazzling pile and added with a sigh:

"That would bring comfort and ease to two poor women like Mariette and me for a lifetime!"

"Those fifteen thousand francs are yours, madame," observed Louis.

"Mine!" she cried, "mine!" then shaking her head incredulously, she resumed sharply; "That's it, laugh at a poor old woman—why can't you leave me in peace?—I don't see why this should belong to me!"

"The money is to be used to provide a pension of twelve hundred francs for you," declared the young man, "that you may be independent after our marriage; for we shall be married as soon as possible."

"Ah! yes; so you wish to bribe the old woman, and be rid of her once for all," growled the irritable Mme. Lacombe. "Do you imagine I would sell myself for money?"

"Dear godmother," cried Mariette, throwing her arms about the woman's neck, "don't say we want to get rid of you! Louis had no thought of humiliating you with the money, he merely did what you requested."

"I know it; but what will you, child," she said, softened in spite of herself. "It was the fear of starving in the streets, the fear of seeing you unhappily married that suggested the idea of a pension to me. I know that I have no right to expect such a thing, but one can never imagine what terror is inspired by the thought of being cast into the streets penniless, old and infirm as I am!—All I want is a poor mattress in a corner, a crust of bread, and the sight of Mariette's sweet face. I am so accustomed to see her come and go in this wretched room, that if she were not there I would think myself shut up in a dark tomb. And besides, she is the only person in the world who could be kind to me—all I ask is to remain with Mariette. That pile of gold dazzled me for a moment, but then it humiliated me too in my heart. One may be but a worm, and yet have some pride—and yet, when that man offered me gold for Mariette the other day, I was not humiliated—I was only furious. But now, here I am weeping; and Mariette knows I have not shed a tear for the last ten years. Bitterness may eat away the heart, but it does not melt it."

"These tears will do you good, godmother," said Mariette gently.

"Have confidence in the future, madame," added Louis, consolingly. "Mariette will never leave you. We shall not live in luxury, but in modest comfort; and Mariette shall continue to love you as a mother, while I shall love you as a dutiful son."

"Are you really in earnest? do you really mean to keep me with you?" she asked, gazing earnestly into their faces, as though she would read their inmost thoughts.

At this new proof of invincible distrust, the young people exchanged a look of compassion; then, taking the sick woman's hand in hers, Mariette said tenderly: "Yes, dear godmother, we shall keep you always with us, and nurse you as we would our own mother; you shall see how happy we shall make life to you—"

"Yes, we shall make your life a dream of happiness," added Louis, affectionately.

The voice, accent, expression and earnestness of the two young people would have convinced the most skeptic; but alas! an absolute, complete belief in sudden happiness could not penetrate this poor soul so long corroded by suffering.

"I believe you, my children," she said, with a suppressed sigh, trying to hide her involuntary doubt. "Yes, I believe Monsieur Louis has the money; I believe that you both feel some affection for me, also—but you know, a new broom sweeps clean! People are willing enough at first, but things change with time. Besides, I may be in the way; newly married people love to be alone, and an old grumbler like me spoils the beauty of a cozy house. You will be afraid of my sharp words, grow weary of me, or—"

"Ah! godmother, do you still doubt us?" cried Mariette, reproachfully.

"You must forgive me, my children, but it is stronger than myself," rejoined the unhappy woman, bursting into sobs. "But then," she added, with a forced smile, "it may be better so; for if I were to suddenly believe in happiness, after more than fifty years of sorrow and misery, I would surely go mad. And upon my word, it would not surprise me," she concluded bitterly, "it would be just my luck."