ho is that?" she cried, half in terror, half in hope.

"It is I, dear mother!" said a weak voice.

She ran toward him. It is her boy--a tall, rough sailor--rising as she
approached him, with the aid of a pair of crutches. And this is what
she has made of her child! Not a word, not an exclamation, not a caress.
They look at each other, and tears fill the eyes of both.

A certain fatality attaches itself to some people, which renders them
and all that they do absolutely ridiculous. When D'Argenton returned
that night, he came with the determination to disclose the fatal news to
Charlotte, and to have the whole affair concluded. The manner in which
he turned the key in the lock announced this solemn determination.
But what was his surprise to find the parlor a blaze of light!
Charlotte--and on the table by the fire the remains of a meal. She came
to him in a terrible state of agitation.

"Hush! Pray make no noise--he is here and asleep."

"Who is here?"

"Jack, of course. He has been shipwrecked, and is severely injured. He
has been saved as by a miracle. He has just come from Rio Janeiro, where
he spent two months in a hospital."

D'Argenton forced a smile, which Charlotte endeavored to believe was one
of satisfaction. It must be acknowledged that he behaved very well, and
said at once that Jack must stay there until he was entirely recovered.
In fact, he could do no less for the actual proprietor of his Review.

The first excitement over, the ordinary life of the poet and Charlotte
was resumed, changed only by the presence of the poor lame fellow, whose
legs were badly burned by the explosion of a boiler, and had not yet
healed. He was clothed in a jacket of blue cloth. His light moustache,
the color of ripe wheat, was struggling into sight through the thick
coating of tan that darkened his face; his eyes were red and inflamed,
for the lashes had been burned off; and in a state of apathy painful to
witness, the son of Ida de Barancy dragged himself from chair to chair,
to the irritation of D'Argenton and to the great shame of his mother.
When some stranger entered the house and cast an astonished glance at
this figure, which offered so strange a contrast to the quiet, luxurious
surroundings, she hastened to say, "It is my son, he has been very ill,"
in the same way that the mothers of deformed children quickly mention
the relationship, lest they should surprise a smile or a compassionate
look. But if she was pain