table. After the doctor had entered the room he took up this lamp and
cast its light upon the body of the child, which retained its painful
rigidity; the head, however, had slipped forward, and nervous
twitchings were ceaselessly drawing the face. For a minute he looked
on in silence, his lips compressed. Helene anxiously watched him, and
on noticing the mother's imploring glance, he muttered: "It will be
nothing. But she must not lie here. She must have air."

Helene grasped her child in a strong embrace, and carried her away on
her shoulder. She could have kissed the doctor's hand for his good
tidings, and a wave of happiness rippled through her. Scarcely,
however, had Jeanne been placed in the larger bed than her poor little
frame was again seized with violent convulsions. The doctor had
removed the shade from the lamp, and a white light was streaming
through the room. Then, opening a window, he ordered Rosalie to drag
the bed away from the curtains. Helene's heart was again filled with
anguish. "Oh, sir, she is dying," she stammered. "Look! look! Ah! I
scarcely recognize her."

The doctor did not reply, but watched the paroxysm attentively.

"Step into the alcove," he at last exclaimed. "Hold her hands to
prevent her from tearing herself. There now, gently, quietly! Don't
make yourself uneasy. The fit must be allowed to run its course."

They both bent over the bed, supporting and holding Jeanne, whose
limbs shot out with sudden jerks. The doctor had buttoned up his coat
to hide his bare neck, and Helene's shoulders had till now been
enveloped in her shawl; but Jeanne in her struggles dragged a corner
of the shawl away, and unbuttoned the top of the coat. Still they did
not notice it; they never even looked at one another.

[Illustration: Jeanne's Illness]

At last the convulsion ceased, and the little one then appeared to
sink into deep prostration. Doctor Deberle was evidently ill at ease,
though he had assured the mother that there was no danger. He kept his
gaze fixed on the sufferer, and put some brief questions to Helene as
she stood by the bedside.

"How old is the child?"

"Eleven years and six months, sir," was the reply.

Silence again fell between them. He shook his head, and stooped to
raise one of Jeanne's lowered eyelids and examine the mucus. Then he
resumed his questions, but without raising his eyes to Helene.

"Did she have convulsions when she was a baby?"

"Yes, sir; but they left he