wever, as night fell, when Helene broke down.
Since her daughter's illness her face had remained grave and somewhat
pale, and a deep wrinkle, never before visible, furrowed her brow.
When Jeanne caught sight of her in these hours of weariness, despair,
and voidness, she herself would feel very wretched, her heart heavy
with vague remorse. Gently and silently she would then twine her arms
around her neck.

"Are you happy, mother darling?" came the whisper.

A thrill ran through Helene's frame, and she hastened to answer: "Yes,
of course, my pet."

Still the child pressed her question:

"Are you, oh! are you happy? Quite sure?"

"Quite sure. Why should I feel unhappy?"

With this Jeanne would clasp her closer in her little arms, as though
to requite her. She would love her so well, she would say--so well,
indeed, that nowhere in all Paris could a happier mother be found.

CHAPTER XIV.

During August Doctor Deberle's garden was like a well of foliage. The
railings were hidden both by the twining branches of the lilac and
laburnum trees and by the climbing plants, ivy, honeysuckle, and
clematis, which sprouted everywhere in luxuriance, and glided and
intermingled in inextricable confusion, drooping down in leafy
canopies, and running along the walls till they reached the elms at
the far end, where the verdure was so profuse that you might have
thought a tent were stretched between the trees, the elms serving as
its giant props. The garden was so small that the least shadow seemed
to cover it. At noon the sun threw a disc of yellow light on the
centre, illumining the lawn and its two flower-beds. Against the
garden steps was a huge rose-bush, laden with hundreds of large
tea-roses. In the evening when the heat subsided their perfume became
more penetrating, and the air under the elms grew heavy with their warm
breath. Nothing could exceed the charm of this hidden, balmy nook,
into which no neighborly inquisition could peep, and which brought one
a dream of the forest primeval, albeit barrel-organs were playing
polkas in the Rue Vineuse, near by.

"Why, madame, doesn't mademoiselle go down to the garden?" Rosalie
daily asked. "I'm sure it would do her good to romp about under the
trees."

One of the elms had invaded Rosalie's kitchen with its branches. She
would pull some of the leaves off as she gazed with delight on the
clustering foliage, through which she could see nothing.