Madame de St. Rochs, unable to endure the loneliness of her own home, determined to take up her abode at Le Ber’s. She came rushing in impetuously, white, cold, and shivering, in the midst of the August heat, clasping the baby and a bundle, which seemed all one, so closely were they held. The childish creature threw herself at Diane’s feet, clutching her friend’s knees, still grasping the bundle and the little waxen baby, who never seemed alarmed, in the other arm. “I cannot keep up alone any longer, and I am ashamed to let the others see me grieve. Let me be quiet—hide me, and don’t let anybody look at me. Diane, tell me how I can live till news comes. I have fearful dreams; I cannot be strong like you.” “At the first touch of sorrow these children think they will die,” mused the Marquise. “Ah! life were very simple could it end when it becomes unendurable. No; poor little Cecile, who is not without courage in her childish way, will live through it all, and will learn to suffer like a woman in the passion and patience of silence. But it is harder for those older, who, while feeling the wound, know that time will heal, and yet know that a look, a touch, a tone, will have power at any moment to revive the old agony till life ends. The happy delusions of youth find no resurrection.” Under the soothing influence of Diane’s consoling presence, the baby wife succeeded in recovering her courage. As her spirits rose in transient reaction against the despondency which had crushed her, the absurd, hapless child committed a hundred extravagances. She chattered and laughed, played wild games with the baby and Nanon—pastimes which were at any moment in danger of being interrupted by vehement thunderstorms of despair. “Our good friend Le Ber has afforded us protection; it is but right that we should share his anxiety,” decided the Marquise. Madame de Monesthrol’s reception-room was continually thronged by women whose gaiety was almost reckless in its exuberance; but there remained an intent, listening look upon the vivacious French faces and sobs often struggled up surreptitiously amidst the laughter. While awaiting the decision of all those tremulous doubts and fears, they bravely endured the dreadful anxiety with which those shiver and burn whose strongest hopes hang in the balance. After all, most of these sorely tried people experienced a sort of desperate trust in circumstances; and the fact that duty was the thing to be considered, and not anybody’s feelings, was cheerfully recognized.