e they save."

"And they love you."

"Well, our affection is not perfect. I don't know which is most to
blame, but after all these years I have failed to inspire you with
confidence." The doctor's voice was sad, and Josephine's bosom panted.

"Pray do not say so," she cried. "I would trust you with my life."

"But not with your secret."

"My secret! What secret? I have no secrets."

"Josephine, you have now for full twelve months suffered in body and
mind, yet you have never come to me for counsel, for comfort, for an old
man's experience and advice, nor even for medical aid."

"But, dear friend, I assure you"--

"We DO NOT deceive our friend. We CANNOT deceive our doctor."

Josephine trembled, but defended herself after the manner of her sex.
"Dear doctor," said she, "I love you all the better for this. Your
regard for me has for once blinded your science. I am not so robust as
you have known me, but there is nothing serious the matter with me. Let
us talk of something else. Besides, it is not interesting to talk about
one's self."

"Very well; since there is nothing serious or interesting in your case,
we will talk about something that is both serious and interesting."

"With all my heart;" and she smiled with a sense of relief.

But the doctor leaned over the table to her, and said in a cautious and
most emphatic whisper, "We will talk about YOUR CHILD."

The work dropped from Josephine's hands: she turned her face wildly on
Aubertin, and faltered out, "M--my child?"

"My words are plain," replied he gravely. "YOUR CHILD."

When the doctor repeated these words, when Josephine looking in his face
saw he spoke from knowledge, however acquired, and not from guess, she
glided down slowly off the sofa and clasped his knees as he stood before
her, and hid her face in an agony of shame and terror on his knees.

"Forgive me," she sobbed. "Pray do not expose me! Do not destroy me."

"Unhappy young lady," said he, "did you think you had deceived me, or
that you are fit to deceive any but the blind? Your face, your anguish
after Colonel Dujardin's departure, your languor, and then your sudden
robustness, your appetite, your caprices, your strange sojourn at
Frejus, your changed looks and loss of health on your return! Josephine,
your old friend has passed many an hour thinking of you, divining your
folly, following your trouble step by step. Yet you never invited him to
aid you."

Josephine faltered out a l