ndly outstretched,
and fell headlong to the floor.

Next morning Sir Everard Kingsland, descending to his hotel breakfast,
found a sealed note beside his plate. He opened it, and saw it was from
the directress of the _Pensionnat des Demoiselles_.

MONSIEUR,--It is with regret I inform you Mademoiselle Hunsden is very
ill. When you left her last evening she ascended to her room at once.
An hour after, sitting in an apartment underneath, I heard a heavy fall.
I ran up at once. Mademoiselle lay on the floor in a dead swoon. I
rang the bell; I raised her; I sent for the doctor. It was a very long
swoon--it was very difficult to restore her. Mademoiselle was very ill
all night--out of herself--delirious. The doctor fears for the brain.
Ah, _mon Dieu_! it is very sad--it is deplorable! We all weep for the
poor Mademoiselle Hunsden. I am, monsieur, with profoundest sentiments
of sorrow and pity, MARIE JUSTINE CELESTE BEAUFORT.

The young baronet waited for no breakfast. He seized his hat, tore out
of the hotel, sprung into a fiacre, and was whirled at once to the
_pension_.

Madame came to him to the parlor, her lace handkerchief to her eyes.
Mademoiselle was very ill. Monsieur could not see her, of course, but
he must not despair.

Doctor Pillule had hopes. She was so young, so strong; but the shock of
her father's death must have been preying on her mind. Madame's
sympathy was inexpressible.

Harriet lay ill for many days--delirious often, murmuring things
pitiably small, calling on her father, on her lover--sometimes on her
horses and dogs. The physician was skillful, and life won the battle.
But it was a weary time before they let her descend to the parlor to see
that impatient lover of hers.

It was very near Christmas, and there was snow on the ground, when she
came slowly down one evening to see him. He sat alone in the prime
salon, where the porcelain stove stood, with its handful of fire,
looking gloomily out at the feathery flakes whirling through the leaden
twilight. He turned round as she glided in, so unlike herself, so like
a spirit, that his heart stood still.

"My love! my love!"

It was all he could say. He took her in his arms, so worn, so wasted,
so sad; wan as the fluttering snow without. All his man's heart
overflowed with infinite love and pity as he held that frail form in his
strong clasp.

"Dear Everard, I have been so ill and so lonely; I wanted yo