“True, you are a doctor!” she murmured, “and I knew it. But I was distracted. Oh, let us hurry!” On the staircase she wished him to go first. She could not have admitted the Divinity to her home in a more reverent manner. Upstairs Rosalie had remained near the child, and had lit the large lamp on the table. After the doctor had entered the room he took up this lamp and cast its light upon the body of the child, which retained its painful rigidity; the head, however, had slipped forward, and nervous twitchings were ceaselessly drawing the face. For a minute he looked on in silence, his lips compressed. Hélène anxiously watched him, and on noticing the mother’s imploring glance, he muttered: “It will be nothing. But she must not lie here. She must have air.” Hélène grasped her child in a strong embrace, and carried her away on her shoulder. She could have kissed the doctor’s hand for his good tidings, and a wave of happiness rippled through her. Scarcely, however, had Jeanne been placed in the larger bed than her poor little frame was again seized with violent convulsions. The doctor had removed the shade from the lamp, and a white light was streaming through the room. Then, opening a window, he ordered Rosalie to drag the bed away from the curtains. Hélène’s heart was again filled with anguish. “Oh, sir, she is dying,” she stammered. “Look! look! Ah! I scarcely recognize her.” The doctor did not reply, but watched the paroxysm attentively. “Step into the alcove,” he at last exclaimed. “Hold her hands to prevent her from tearing herself. There now, gently, quietly! Don’t make yourself uneasy. The fit must be allowed to run its course.” They both bent over the bed, supporting and holding Jeanne, whose limbs shot out with sudden jerks. The doctor had buttoned up his coat to hide his bare neck, and Hélène’s shoulders had till now been enveloped in her shawl; but Jeanne in her struggles dragged a corner of the shawl away, and unbuttoned the top of the coat. Still they did not notice it; they never even looked at one another. [Illustration] At last the convulsion ceased, and the little one then appeared to sink into deep prostration. Doctor Deberle was evidently ill at ease, though he had assured the mother that there was no danger. He kept his gaze fixed on the sufferer, and put some brief questions to Hélène as she stood by the bedside. “How old is the child?” “Eleven years and six months, sir,” was the reply. Silence again fell between them. He shook his head, and stooped to raise one of Jeanne’s lowered eyelids and examine the mucus. Then he resumed his questions, but without raising his eyes to Hélène. “Did she have convulsions when she was a baby?” “Yes, sir; but they left her after she reached her sixth birthday. Ah! she is very delicate. For some days past she had seemed ill at ease. She was at times taken with cramp, and plunged in a stupor.”