undertakes. But
your own dress, Madeleine?"

"Do not be uneasy about that; we will think of that when the others are
ready."

"But if you do not wear a dress that becomes you?" persisted Bertha.

"Why, then I shall have to look at yours, and, remembering that it is my
handiwork, be satisfied."

"There is no one like you, Madeleine!" burst forth Maurice,
uncontrollably,--"no one! You never think of yourself; you"--

"But, as some one is always good enough to think of me, I deserve little
credit on that account," rejoined Madeleine.

"Who could help thinking of you?" murmured Maurice, tenderly.

The countess had not heard the enthusiastic encomium of Maurice, nor his
last, involuntary remark. The young man had risen and joined his
cousins. His father had taken the vacant seat beside the countess, and
was talking to her in a low tone. From the moment he learned that
Madeleine's relatives were accidentally assembled at the Chateau de
Tremazan, he had determined to seize that favorable opportunity, and
send them the letters requesting that they would by turns offer a home
to their poor and orphan relative. These letters, though written upon
the day previous, fortunately had not yet been posted. Count Tristan
whisperingly communicated his intention to his mother, and received her
approval.

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of M. Gaston de Bois,
who invariably arrived before other guests made their appearance. M. de
Bois was such a martyr to nervous timidity, that he could not summon
courage to enter a room full of company, even with some great
stimulating compensation in view. On the present occasion, though only
the family had assembled, his olive complexion crimsoned as he advanced
towards the countess, and his expressive, though irregular and not
strictly handsome features became almost distorted; he unconsciously
thrust his fingers through his hair, throwing it into startling
disorder, and twisted his dark moustache until it stood out with
sufficient ferocity to suit the face of a brigand in a melodrama.

But the most painful effect of this bewildering embarrassment evinced
itself when he attempted to speak. His utterance became suddenly
impeded, and, the more violent his efforts to articulate, the more
difficult it seemed for him to utter a distinct sentence. He was
painfully near-sighted; yet he always detected the faintest smile upon
the countenance of any one present, and interpreted it in