ong and steadily, and one hand went to her bosom as she
raised her eyes to the Doctor's.

"Tell me--did he suffer much?"

"No--impossible. Death must have been almost instantaneous. I doubt if
he was able to cry out. Pray come away, Mademoiselle--you will faint. I
should not have let you see this."

A voice in the hall called the Doctor. He was wanted, had been sent for
in haste, some one was dying. He went quickly to the door to reply.
Alexia Boucheafen bent down, her hand gently swept the hair from the
dead boy's forehead, and for a moment her lips rested upon it.

"Poor boy," she murmured--"you were too young, too weak! It was cruel.
I did my best to save you, but I could not."

"Mademoiselle, pray come," said the Doctor, turning from the door.

"I am coming, sir," replied the governess; and with that she gently
replaced the sheet, and followed him quietly from the room.

* * * * *

Doctor Brudenell had a busy day, a day so filled with work that, coming
after his sleepless night, it exhausted him. It was later than usual
when he reached home, to find his dinner spoiled and Mrs. Jessop's
temper ruffled. So tired was he that, when the meal was over, he fell
asleep in his chair, entirely forgetting for once his regular visit to
Miss Boucheafen's sitting-room to bid the children good-night. But his
thoughts were all of her; and he dreamed of her as he sat--dreamed that
she was in some trouble, grief, danger, of which he did not know the
nature, and was helpless to relieve.

Vague as it was, the dream was to him dreadful, and the struggle that
he made to find her, to save her, was so intense that he awoke--awoke
to see her standing within a yard or two of his chair, a letter in her
hand, the usual calmness of her face gone, her very lips unsteady. He
started to his feet, and seized her hand--the dream still clung about
him, and he did not realize her reality. Then he exclaimed, seeing the
change in her:

"Mademoiselle, what is it? What is the matter? You are in trouble."

"Yes," she said faintly. She was trembling, and he gently induced her
to sit in the chair from which he had risen. "Pray pardon me, sir," she
said; "but I am troubled. I do not know what to do, and"--she faltered,
glancing at him--"it seemed natural to come to you."

Sensible, practical George Brudenell was far from sensible and
practical when in the presence of those glorious eyes, which looked