Du Chesne lay in a quiet room, while the moments which no human will could arrest swept on. He had accepted the verdict passed upon him as the most natural thing in the world—“quite simple,” as he said. He was still so young and ardent of temperament that even the dark passage to the grave abounded in hopeful portents. He would insist upon being propped up in bed, and being allowed to talk. Affection banished the solemn, wistful look from his face, and gleamed like faint flashes of sunshine from the edges of the dark shadow. The young Canadian was tender and considerate, even on his death-bed. He was wondrously patient in his pity for Lydia’s simplicity and weakness; his dying eyes followed her ceaselessly, with a faithful love which had been born on earth, but which would last forever. Cecile, outside the door of the sick-room, cried out, launching furious, vehement invectives against the cruelty of Fate; and Nanon, all glowing red, her eyes blazing with indignation, her lips quivering with genuine distress, stood by, with a gaze of wrath and disgust fixed on the stranger’s face. But Lydia was too completely absorbed in her own fright and misery to be sensible of criticism, animosity, or even the evidences of tenderest affection. All her complacent little vanities had vanished as, clinging to her friend with piteous, shaking hands, she sought vainly to obtain some inspiration from the desperate bravery of Diane’s face. “Diane, be good to her,” pleaded the dying man. “You are her only protector. You are strong and tender and loyal. I can trust you, my brave and faithful sister.” In the constancy of her courage Diane never either faltered or failed. If she was crushed beneath the cross which was laid upon her, she at least tasted the supreme blessedness of sacrificing self. Tender affection gave sight to her eyes, and taught her how to comfort and solace the sufferer to beguile the pain and tedium of a death-bed, to staunch those wounds for which human art has no remedy.