education which would be safest for him, she sighed at the reflection that he never could look prettier than he did now, with his long curls, and bare sturdy legs, and the embroidered frock that people thought so babyish; that he might even get ugly when he grew big, or rough, as Alfred did when he was sent to school.

"Grandmamma is odd, mignonne," said Raymond, "but that is no news. She does not mean to be unkind, and you must not be anxious."

So she had to be thankful that the days passed by without any letter, and enjoy her visit if possible, as Madame herself would have prescribed. There was plenty of gossip by way of conversation; a few attempts at sketching the mountain scenery by some of the younger ladies-more, apparently, for the sake of the basis it afforded for paying of compliments than for love of the mountains themselves. There was also a solemn ascension undertaken by the whole party up as far as the Lac de Gaube, where Raymond, accompanied by the guides and some of the gentlemen staying at the château, left the ladies, and skirted the path to the left of the lake, on their way to the snowfields of the Vignemale. It was a curious sight, and one that had not unfrequently led to attempts at caricature from Estelle's pencil when she had visited the mountains with her mother in her girlhood— that of a large party of ladies, of which she now for the first time formed one, all carried in sedan-chairs up the steep paths, past precipices, cascades, and overhanging crags, dressed in costumes only fit for the boulevards of Paris, and giving vent to their feelings by various trivial exclamations, of which "How sweetly pretty!" formed the staple.

Madame Mathilde, in pursuance of her aunt's plan, spared no pains to amuse Estelle. Madame Fleury had written further, saying that the old Comte was known to be failing greatly, and that before another year was over probably Madame Raymond would be Comtesse, vice Madame Octavie. Therefore, &c.Mathilde understood, and gave such a pressing invitation to both Raymond and

Estelle to prolong their stay, that Raymond, instead of one excursion, made several in the neighbourhood, satisfied that at the château his wife could not possibly fall a prey to the ennui which the doctor said was to be guarded against so carefully.

But even excursions have their limits; and Estelle's heart beat high with pleasure the day they exchanged the valley of Argélés, with its vernal slopes and running streams, for the dreary, baked plains through which their road lay to Château Montaigu. Raymond, as they drew near their journey's end, got fidgety as a sportsman might, about the two izards and the bouquetin which were slung to the bottom of the carriage, in a mountain hamper well packed in ice. She lay back, and answered his queries when necessary, keeping back by a strong effort the question that rose to her lips, which she knew could not be answered yet: "How shall we find our boy?" She kept it back because she knew that Raymond would set it down to nervousness; would laugh at her "hyper-anxiety;" and then be vexed and anxious himself about her, perhaps begin feeling her pulse, or observe that she was too flushed or too pale, which worried and annoyed her beyond measure.

But when they entered the avenue, late in the evening, she could contain herself no longer. "At last!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how thankful I am not to have another night to pass without seeing my boy! Will they have kept him up, I wonder?"

That was not at all likely, Raymond said: Grandmamma would never allow such a breach of discipline. He looked out as he spoke. There was a light in the nursery window and in his wife's drawing-room. The ground-floor was in darkness. A presentiment of evil seized him. He was silent, trying to account for the position of the lights by the supposition that his mother, whose whims were legion, might have chosen to occupy that drawing-room instead of her own. He hoped Estelle would not notice it.

But she did, as the carriage turned up

the broad terrace. She drew in her breath as if she had been stabbed, and sank back trembling. Raymond put his arm round her and took her hands. They were as cold as ice.

"My darling," he said, "my own wife! It may be nothing, you know."

"Do you not see," she faltered; "there is no light even in your father's room?" It was true. There was not a single light anywhere but at those two upper windows.

"There is illness; what is it?" said Raymond to old Jean-Marie, who appeared as the carriage drew up. Estelle had prepared to descend without a word. She dared not ask any questions.

"The heaven be praised," the old servant said, "that Madame was arrived. The little Monsieur had been bled, and everything was going on for the best."

"Do you hear that?" Estelle said, turning to her husband. "They have been bleeding him. My boy will die; and she will have murdered him !"

Raymond hastened upstairs after her, filled with dismay. He knew only too well what prompted her passionate words. Their physician at Paris had once said for his guidance, that either to her or to the child depletion was certain death. And he knew that his mother was a great advocate of bleeding, that she was bled regularly every spring, and believed her daughter-in-law's horror of the Sangrado mode of treatment to be simply another instance of English eccentricity.

Hortense, hearing their arrival, had come to the head of the stairs to meet them, and had heard Estelle's speech.

"Madame has done everything that was possible," she began; "and there is no danger, not the slightest."

Estelle passed by her hastily without speaking. Raymond stopped for a moment. "How was it we were not sent for instantly-instantly ?" he asked angrily. "When you all knew how sacred a trust our child was! When you all knew-you as well as anybody-that nothing would have made me take away my wife but my anxiety for her health."

"I am not mistress here," was Hor

tense's reply; "and you had better ad dress your observations to your mother She can give you her reasons, cousin."

"Bah! I ought to have known that you had no heart, Hortense. Allow me to pass."

He followed his wife into the nursery. If the pertness of Hortense's reply angered him, much more did the scene that met his eyes as he entered. His father was crouching in a chair by the child's bed, with his eyes fixed upon the little form that lay apparently in an uneasy sleep. Lisette and Madame's maid were in one corner telling their rosaries. The doors were open, and a crowd of servants were standing and sitting in the antechamber, whispering and shaking their heads as they noted the entrance of the father and mother. Madame de Montaigu herself stood at the foot of the bed, with her hand on Estelle's arm, talking earnestly in a loud whisper. The doctor would come again, she said, at ten o'clock. It was a case of diphtheria, but not dangerous, remedial measures having been promptly applied.

Estelle had listened to her like one in a dream. She now shook her hand off, saying, in a tone of authority she had never used before,

"This room must be cleared!"

Lisette made a move towards the door. No one else stirred. The servants crowding up the doorways were Madame's servants, and she had not spoken, not so much as by a look or a sign did she endorse her daughter-inlaw's order. She had her rosary in her hand, too; Estelle's coming in had interrupted her, and her beads remained half-told.

Raymond took in the situation at a glance. He went up to the intruders in the antechamber with his face all ablaze with anger. "Did you not hear Madame Raymond tell you to clear out?" he exclaimed in vehement patois. They knew the young master would be obeyed, and slunk away like whipped dogs.

Monsieur de Montaigu lifted up his head, and begged feebly to be let stay.

"I will keep quiet, only let me see him," he prayed. Raymond consulted his wife by a glance. She pointed to the thermometer over the mantelpiece; it stood at 90° Fahr. and Raymond went up to his father and said gently but inexorably, "It is impossible, father; I must beg you to come away." He led him into the drawing-room. When he returned, Estelle was alone; Madame had not waited to be asked to go.

She came and fell on his neck, trembling. "Oh, Raymond, it is diphtheria-certain death," she whispered. "And our only boy-our only treasure!"

Yet she forced back the cry of anguish that rose to her lips lest it should wake him.

Raymond uttered an imprecation. "Why were we not sent for?" he muttered, clenching his teeth.

Madame could best have answered that question.

What Raymond could do was done. A note was sent requesting the attendance of the doctor in Toulouse upon whom Estelle placed most reliance, and a telegram to their Paris medical attendant. Raymond expected his mother to be furious at having her own doctor dismissed, but that was a very small matter to him now.

When he came back to the nursery, he found his wife sitting by the bed with the child's hand in hers. "He has spoken," she said. "He knew me directly he opened his eyes."

The terrible stony look had left her face. She had his hand in hers, he had spoken, he felt her presence, he had given back her smile. Her husband saw that now the shock of learning the child's illness was over, hope had taken possession of her. He sat by her, and told her what he had done. Raymond, what should I do without you?" was her answer.

"Oh,

Three days passed; days of alternate hope and fear; of steadfast watching on the part of the father and mother; of prayers, vows, regrets, conjectures, from other members of the household. Madame ordered a novena; the maids told their rosaries incessantly. As for

Hortense, she was fully occupied in seeing all the people who came to inquire. Monsieur de Montaigu came. upstairs daily, helped by his valet and Raymond, and sat in the drawingroom, anxiously interrogating each one that passed in or out. "It was just possible that the child might recover,” the doctors said; "but he never ought to have been bled."

That "just possible" gave M. de Montaigu a grain of hope that added fervour to his prayers. 'Ah, yes," he exclaimed, "Heaven must give us back our little one, our only child. To take him would be to take the one ewe lamb. Heaven cannot be so cruel, my good sirs." And to all the Cure's attempts to prepare him gently for what might be, he answered: "Dear Abbé, Heaven will not be so cruel."

But the faint hope died away as the third day wore on. As the shadows grew longer, every one except the child's mother knew that before the next dawn the house of the Montaigus would be left desolate. Although she had spoken out her belief that he would die at the first, not even Madame had courage to tell her now that death was at hand. She stood by the bed, muttering prayers to the Virgin. "If he recovers," she said, "I will make an offering to our Lady of Puy la Hun of a gold-embroidered mantle. I will"

"The noise of your dress disturbs him," said Estelle in a cold, hard voice. She could scarcely bear Madame to come near her. Lisette had made an opportunity to tell her how Madame had tried to bring her boy under what she believed to be proper discipline. How not a day had passed without his being in disgrace. How the first symptoms of his illness had been made light of, and the irritability laid to the score of ill-temper. Lastly, how he had been. put under Hortense's care, and how he had been missed, and found, hours after, by the distracted Lisette and JeanMarie, crying, in a hollow of the marsh. Lisette gave her tongue full swing in commenting on Hortense's conduct.

"She forgot the poor lamb as soon as