CHAPTER XV.

Mary Brander made her way wearily home.

"You have had another terrible time, I can see it in your face," Madame
Michaud said, as she entered. "They say there have been four thousand
wounded and fifteen hundred killed. I cannot understand how you support
such scenes."

"It has been a hard time," Mary said; "I will go up to my room at once,
madame. I am worn out."

"Do so, my dear. I will send you in a basin of broth."

Without even taking her bonnet off Mary dropped into a chair when she
entered her room and sat there till Margot brought in the broth.

"I don't think I can take it, thank you, Margot."

"But you must take it, mademoiselle," the servant said, sturdily; "but
wait a moment, let me take off your bonnet and brush your hair. There is
nothing like having your hair brushed when you are tired."

Passively Mary submitted to the woman's ministrations, and presently
felt soothed, as Margot with, by no means ungentle hands, brushed
steadily the long hair she had let down.

"You feel better, mademoiselle?" the woman asked, presently. "That is
right, now take a little of this broth. Please try, and then I will take
off your cloak and frock and you shall lie down, and I will cover you
up."

Mary made an effort to drink the broth, then the servant partly
undressed her and covered her up warmly with blankets, drew the curtains
across the window and left her with the words. "Sleep well,
mademoiselle."

But for a time Mary felt utterly unable to sleep. She was too worn out
for that relief. It had been a terrible time for her. For twenty-four
hours she had been engaged unceasingly in work of the most trying
description. The scent of blood still seemed to hang about her, and she
vaguely wondered whether she should ever get rid of it. Then there had
been her own special anxiety and suspense, and the agony of seeing
Cuthbert brought in apparently wounded to death. The last blow had been
dealt by this woman. She said she was his fiancee, but although she had
it from her lips, Mary could not believe it. She might be his mistress
but surely not the other. Surely he could never make that wild
passionate woman his wife. Then she felt she was unjust. This poor
creature would naturally be in a passion of grief and agony, at finding
that she could not go to the bedside of the man she loved. She should
not judge her from that. She remembered how different was her expression
in some of the sketches she