"Listen, Madame," said the doctor. "Your husband is ill, very ill indeed. Keep the little one away if you can, but if not, let her go to him. It may be possible that the truth and the truth alone may save him even now. I will come back in two hours. Try to save him from shock, if possible; but behold! if it is necessary, fetch _la petite_ Comtesse." The doctor departed and Madame went back to her husband's bedside. He was talking in a rambling, feeble way, and kept looking first at the clock and then at the door. "_La petite_, she does not arrive," he said suddenly. As suddenly a thought flashed through the mind of la Comtesse. "She will not be here till late to-night, _mon_ Alphonse," was her reply. "She has been asked to partake of _tisane_ with her cousins, the Marquises Clotilde _et_ Rose. She will have much to tell thee when she does enter thy room." "Ah," said the poor old Comte feebly, "is she also one of those who overlook the old, the very aged, when they can hardly speak, hardly think? Time flies for us both--ah, _ma petite_ Comtesse, _mon ange_, I may not be here if thou dost delay. I want her to tell me----" "What, my unhappy one?" asked his wife. "All about that wonderful _petite_ who performs such extraordinary feats at the _établissement_ which once was thine, my Ninon." All of a sudden the heart of Ninon rose in a great wave. It seemed to struggle for utterance. She could scarcely contain herself. "Harken, _mon_ Alphonse," she said. "I will go myself and see whether the automobile has yet returned." "Ah, do, my Ninon," replied the Comte. "Thou, at least, hast always been faithful and true--faithful, loving and true. I trust thee to the uttermost." The poor woman staggered out of the room. She was met by little Margot, who was standing in the passage, and whose face was the colour of a white sheet. Her deep, dark eyes were full of untold misery. "_Belle_ grand'mère," she began--but grand'mère had no words to express her feelings. She pointed to the door where the sick man lay. "Thou mayst save him. Thou hast my permission," she said in the lowest whisper; and little Margot with her gentle step entered the darkened room. She knew at once that it was a trifle too hot. She opened wide one of the French windows; she let in the soft air, which, winter-time as it was in most places, felt like summer here. The old man breathed more easily. He turned on his pillow. He opened his eyes, so very sunken in his head, but they lit up with a joy beyond expression when he saw little Margot. "Ah, I am weak, _mon enfant_," he said. "But thou hast come, _ma petite_. Put thy little hand on mine. There is life in thy little hand; lay it on mine. Ah, _ma petite_, how greatly do I love thee." "And I thee, _mon_ grandpère," cried Margot.