when madeline recovered her senses she was lying upon her bed, with her maid bending anxiously above her. as she opened her eyes the girl uttered a cry.

‘oh, thank god, you have awakened, dear mademoiselle. i feared your eyes were closed for ever.’

but, without replying, madeline only closed her eyes and became insensible again.

what was happening nobody knew, and the servants became very alarmed. it was strange, they thought, that at such a time, when the young lady was sick to death, her mother and cousin should leave the house; and yet they had gone, and had only just left a little note for mademoiselle. it was well for madeline that her own maid was kindly. she kept by her mistress’s side, although, one by one, the other servants fled.

two days after the departure of monsieur belleisle, a strange english gentleman called at the hotel and asked for him. on being told that he was gone, and that the only occupant of the rooms now was a young lady who was supposed to be dying, he asked to be allowed to see her, and was conducted at once to madeline’s apartment.

the young man walked up the stairs with the memory of his last meeting with the girl still in his mind. he felt very bitter against her, but the moment he entered the room where she was lying his bitterness melted away. how pale and ill she looked! how wasted, wretched, and sad! he bent for a moment to sadly regard the unconscious face, he pressed the wasted hand, felt the pulse; then turned to the maid, who stood looking on in mute amazement.

when madeline was apparently prosperous, she did not enter into his calculations at all. once, when he thought her in need of help, he had offered it—now, when he knew her to be in need, he gave it. by a few well-applied questions he extracted from the maid such facts as, coupled with those in his own knowledge, gave him a pretty correct idea of how things stood.

he still believed madeline to be culpable—there was nothing to convince him to the contrary; but she was a countrywoman in distress, and he was still man enough to assist her. he announced his intention of looking after her, until such time as her relations could be communicated with and she could be left in proper hands.

he provided a proper doctor, and sent a professional nurse to share the vigils of madeline’s french maid.

it was during these nights of nursing that the poor parched lips of the invalid muttered words which astonished the englishman. for, little by little, word by word, she told him all. sometimes she called on belleisle for mercy, begging him to take her back to school; then she reproached him for having forced her into a marriage; then she cried and sobbed, vowing vehemently that she was his wife. she spoke again and again of the forged letters to the marquis de vaux; then she cried passionately, saying she could never face her guardian any more.

‘delirious people never lie,’ said the young man to himself one evening, as he stood by the bed, plaintively regarding the pale, pinched face. ‘if she had not been so ill i could not have extracted so much from her by days of cross-questioning. poor, misguided, miserable child—another instance of the martyrdom of woman to the treachery of man. god help her! god help her!’

having told this much, madeline told more. by interrogating her during her saner moments, he learned that her guardian was a mr. white, who lived in a studio in st. john’s wood. he risked sending a telegram, and somewhat to his amazement got a reply—

‘god bless you for the information. i am starting for paris forthwith.’

having read the telegram, which came to his lodgings, he folded it, put it in his pocket, and walked up to the house where madeline still lay. good news awaited him there. the maid’s face was very bright, and the cause of that brightness was that mademoiselle had awakened, taken some nourishment, and fallen into a natural sleep. the fever had abated, and the doctor said that the crisis was now past.

‘would monsieur like to see mademoiselle?*

he shook his head.

‘you must not mention to her that i have been here at all. but there will be an english gentleman here to-morrow, whom she will be glad to see.’

having arranged everything to his satisfaction, he returned to his lodgings, sat down before a roaring wood fire, lit a cigar, and began to think.

his watching was at an end; his long, sad looks at madeline were over; and, to his own surprise, he felt a sort of regret. during the last few days he had never been free from self-reproach. he had met her at a time when his help might have saved her—yet, because she repulsed him, he had quietly stood aloof and let her drift to her ruin. yes, although his reason told him he was not to blame, in his own mind he felt culpable.

well, it was all over now; self-accusation and recrimination would never obliterate that dark past from the girl’s life—she must live and suffer—but he vowed to himself that it should be his endeavour to make that suffering easy for her to bear.

during that night he slept little, but when he did sleep he dreamed of madeline. now he clasped her in his arms and plunged with her into wild waters—again he drew her from some darkly surging river, or with uplifted knife stood waiting to plunge it into the heart of the grinning frenchman. he was glad when daylight relieved him from such dreams.

his first care was to ascertain how his charge was thriving. the report was favourable again; she had passed a peaceful night, and in the morning she had lain for half an hour talking rationally to her maid. she heard with perfect equanimity of the departure and continued absence of madame de fontenay and monsieur belleisle. she opened and read the letter which monsieur had left for her, then quietly burned it in the candle which stood beside her bed. she thanked her maid for her kindness, said she must be removed from that place, and then dropped into an exhausted sleep again.

well satisfied with the account, the young man again returned home to await the arrival of mr. white. in the afternoon white came. ’twas no other, of course, than our old acquaintance, but so changed that his nearest friend would hardly know him. his cheeks were ghastly, his eyes sunken, his hair and beard unkempt, and his clothes in a deplorable condition with the long and tedious travel. despite his disreputable appearance, however, the young man’s heart went out to him at once. he gave him a cordial welcome, and tenderly told him all that he knew about his ward. in return, white gave his confidence, and then the two men walked together to the house where madeline lay. white’s hands trembled, his cheeks turned very pale, when the maid came to conduct him to madeline’s room. he went up alone.

in one of the lower salons the other awaited his return.

one hour passed, then another; he read one, read all the papers, walked restless up and down in growing excitement—till white returned to him, with cheeks more pinched and ghastly than they had been before, and pitiful tears in his eyes. he laid his tremulous hand upon the young man’s shoulder.

‘she has sobbed herself to sleep,’ he said. ‘would you like to see her now?’ the other, unable to resist, went again into the room where madeline lay. she was quite unconscious of his presence, in a deep but troubled sleep. her loose fair hair was scattered upon the pillow—her breath came in short quick pants, which sometimes turned to sobs. upon one hand her cheek was resting, the other lay carelessly upon the coverlet.

the young man raised her hand gently, and pressed it to his lips.

‘farewell!’ he murmured. ‘god knows if we shall meet again!’