ess, inspired her, no doubt,
with the thought that only a miraculous effort of their love could
save her. As the hours slipped away she would gaze on them with grave
and searching looks as they sat on each side of her crib. Her glances
remained instinct with human passion, and though she spoke not she
told them all she desired by the warm pressure of her hands, with
which she besought them not to leave her, giving them to understand
what peace was hers when they were present. Whenever the doctor
entered after having been away her joy became supreme, and her eyes,
which never quitted the door, flashed with light; and then she would
fall quietly asleep, all her fears fleeing as she heard her mother and
him moving around her and speaking in whispers.

On the day after the attack Doctor Bodin called. But Jeanne suddenly
turned away her head and refused to allow him to examine her.

"I don't want him, mamma," she murmured, "I don't want him! I beg of
you."

As he made his appearance on the following day, Helene was forced to
inform him of the child's dislike, and thus it came about that the
venerable doctor made no further effort to enter the sick-room. Still,
he climbed the stairs every other day to inquire how Jeanne was
getting on, and sometimes chatted with his brother professional,
Doctor Deberle, who paid him all the deference due to an elder.

Moreover, it was useless to try to deceive Jeanne. Her senses had
become wondrously acute. The Abbe and Monsieur Rambaud paid a visit
every night; they sat down and spent an hour in sad silence. One
evening, as the doctor was going away, Helene signed to Monsieur
Rambaud to take his place and clasp the little one's hand, so that she
might not notice the departure of her beloved friend. But two or three
minutes had scarcely passed ere Jeanne opened her eyes and quickly
drew her hand away. With tears flowing she declared that they were
behaving ill to her.

"Don't you love me any longer? won't you have me beside you?" asked
poor Monsieur Rambaud, with tears in his eyes.

She looked at him, deigning no reply; it seemed as if her heart was
set on knowing him no more. The worthy man, grievously pained,
returned to his corner. He always ended by thus gliding into a
window-recess, where, half hidden behind a curtain, he would remain
during the evening, in a stupor of grief, his eyes the while never
quitting the sufferer. The Abbe was there as well, with his large head
and palli