om. And, as her husband made no reply: "Perhaps," she added,
hesitatingly, "perhaps it will not be prudent for us to leave him too
entirely to the dictates of his despair."

The baron shuddered. He divined only too well the terrible apprehensions
of his wife.

"We have nothing to fear," he replied, quickly; "I heard Marie-Anne
promise to meet Maurice to-morrow in the grove on the Reche."

The anxious mother breathed more freely. Her blood had frozen with
horror at the thought that her son might, perhaps, be contemplating
suicide; but she was a mother, and her husband's assurances did not
satisfy her.

She hastily ascended the stairs leading to her son's room, softly opened
the door, and looked in. He was so engrossed in his gloomy revery that
he had heard nothing, and did not even suspect the presence of the
anxious mother who was watching over him.

He was sitting at the window, his elbows resting upon the sill, his head
supported by his hands, looking out into the night.

There was no moon, but the night was clear, and over beyond the light
fog that indicated the course of the Oiselle one could discern the
imposing mass of the Chateau de Sairmeuse, with its towers and fanciful
turrets.

More than once he had sat thus silently gazing at this chateau, which
sheltered what was dearest and most precious in all the world to him.

From his windows he could see those of the room occupied by Marie-Anne;
and his heart always quickened its throbbing when he saw them
illuminated.

"She is there," he thought, "in her virgin chamber. She is kneeling to
say her prayers. She murmurs my name after that of her father, imploring
God's blessing upon us both."

But this evening he was not waiting for a light to gleam through the
panes of that dear window.

Marie-Anne was no longer at Sairmeuse--she had been driven away.

Where was she now? She, accustomed to all the luxury that wealth could
procure, no longer had any home except a poor thatch-covered hovel,
whose walls were not even whitewashed, whose only floor was the earth
itself, dusty as the public highway in summer, frozen or muddy in
winter.

She was reduced to the necessity of occupying herself the humble abode
she, in her charitable heart, had intended as an asylum for one of her
pensioners.

What was she doing now? Doubtless she was weeping.

At this thought poor Maurice was heartbroken.

What was his surprise, a little after midnight, to see the chateau
b