d before she
could remember him, and the mother, who was of Greek blood, not long
after. A relative who arranged affairs left the daughter penniless. At
the little chateau Levigne she was of great service to me when she was
but sixteen. Madam Blanc, who tried to reach me in time, declares the
child saved my life. It was a dog--a mad one. I was on the lawn when
he broke through the hedge, snapped Alain's mastiff, Ponto, and came
straight for me. I was paralyzed with terror; then, just as he leaped
at me, the child swung a heavy chair over her head. Tah! She looked
like a young tigress. The dog was struck helpless, his back broken.
The gardener came and killed him, and Ponto, too, was killed, when he
showed that the bite had given him the poison. Ah, it was terrible,
that day. Then I wrote Alain and we decided she should never leave us.
I made over to her the income of the little Lavigne estate, thus her
education was carried on, and when we went to Rome--well, Alain was
not satisfied until he could do even more for her."

The old lady helped herself to snuff and sighed. Her listener wondered
if, after all, that death-bed marriage had been entirely acceptable to
the mother. Some suggestion of his thought must have come to her, for
she continued:

"Not that I disapproved, you must understand. No daughter could be
more devoted. I could not be without her now. But I had a hope--a
mother's foolish hope--that perhaps it might be a love affair; that
the marriage would renew his interest in life and thus accomplish what
the physicians could not do--save him."

"Good old Alain," said Dumaresque, with real feeling in his tones. "He
deserved to live and win her. I can imagine no better fortune for a
man."

"But it was an empty hope, and a sad wedding," continued the dowager,
with a sigh. "That was, to her, a day of gloom, which to others is
the one day to look forward to through girlhood and backward to from
old age. Oh, yes; it is not so much to be wondered at that she is a
creature of moods and ideals outlined on a background of shadow."

The voice of the Marquise sounded through the hall and up the stairs.
She was singing, joying as a bird. The eyes of the two met, and
Dumaresque laughed.

"Oh! and what is that but a mood, too?" demanded the dowager; "a mood
that is pleasant, I grant you, and it has lasted longer than
usual--ever since we came to Paris. I enjoy it, but I like to know the
reason of things. I guess at it i