slin, and Francis alone.

"What did she say to you?" asked Madame Sauviat of her grandson.

"I don't know; she did not speak French."

"Couldn't you understand anything she said?" asked Veronique.

"No; but she kept saying over and over,--and that's why I remember
it,--_My dear brother_!"

Veronique took her mother's arm and led her son by the hand, but she had
scarcely gone a dozen steps before her strength gave way.

"What is the matter? what has happened?" said the others, who now came
up, to Madame Sauviat.

"Oh! my daughter is in danger!" said the old woman, in guttural tones.

It was necessary to carry Madame Graslin to her carriage. She signed to
Aline to get into it with Francis, and also Gerard.

"You have been in England," she said to the latter as soon as she
recovered herself, "and therefore no doubt you speak English; tell me
the meaning of the words, _my dear brother_."

On being told, Veronique exchanged a look with Aline and her mother
which made them shudder; but they restrained their feelings.

The shouts and joyous cries of those who were assisting in the departure
of the carriages, the splendor of the setting sun as it lay upon the
meadows, the perfect gait of the beautiful horses, the laughter of her
friends as they followed her on horseback at a gallop,--none of these
things roused Madame Graslin from her torpor. Her mother ordered the
coachman to hasten his horses, and their carriage reached the chateau
some time before the others. When the company were again assembled, they
were told that Veronique had gone to her rooms and was unable to see any
one.

"I fear," said Gerard to his friends, "that Madame Graslin has had some
fatal shock."

"Where? how?" they asked.

"To her heart," he answered.

The following day Roubaud started for Paris. He had seen Madame Graslin,
and found her so seriously ill that he wished for the assistance and
advice of the ablest physician of the day. But Veronique had only
received Roubaud to put a stop to her mother and Aline's entreaties that
she would do something to benefit her; she herself knew that death had
stricken her. She refused to see Monsieur Bonnet, sending word to him
that the time had not yet come. Though all her friends who had come from
Limoges to celebrate her birthday wished to be with her, she begged them
to excuse her from fulfilling the duties of hospitality, saying that she
desired to remain in the deepest solitude. After Roubaud's