Four days later he brought a letter from Miss Wynthrop, saying that Mrs. Harcourt’s condition was unchanged, and that her mind was principally occupied with anticipations of seeing her dear son, who, as she told everybody, was pursuing his law studies in the University of Virginia, but would come and spend his Easter holidays with her. “Evidently she has forgotten all about the marriage at which she was present, and apparently all about my existence. That may be well. But if she had only forgotten the marriage, and not forgotten me, I might still write to her, still comfort her, as the betrothed of her son,” said Roma with a sigh. “I wrote another letter by the same mail by which I wrote to Miss Wynthrop. The second letter was to Dr. Wall, the Logwood practitioner, who is attending Mrs. Harcourt, to inquire into her condition. In reply, he informs me that she is affected with softening of the brain, that there is no hope of her recovery, though she may live for many years. It is very sad! Sadder than death!” “Yes,” sighed Roma. “Oh, if I could only go to her, or have her with me! Ah! Where is her son?” The lawyer sighed, and shook his head in hopeless helplessness, and soon after rose and took leave. The early days of the New Year were very fine, but toward the middle of January the weather changed. A cold wave swept over the city, bringing fierce snowstorms. Madame Marguerite felt the change, and began to cough, and complain of oppression on her chest, with fever. Her attendant physician treated her for these symptoms, and Roma nursed her tenderly. But, as if the severe weather was not sufficiently injurious, something went wrong with the great furnace, or the pipes, it was difficult to tell which, and the rooms were imperfectly heated. Marguerite shivered and flushed or broke into heavy perspirations. She was too ill to be removed from the house, but Roma did all that was possible to make her comfortable. She wheeled her reclining chair up against the steam pipes on the wall and stretched a screen around it. One morning a crisis came. Marguerite was seized with a severe fit of coughing, which resulted in hemorrhage. Roma held the bowl and supported the fragile form until the flow ceased. Then she laid the sufferer back on the reclining chair. “Oh—that—was—good,” murmured Marguerite, very faintly; “that—was—relief.” And though she was very weak, weak almost unto death, she seemed to suffer less from oppression and difficulty of breathing. Roma administered a restorative, and told her not to speak or move again for some time. Then Roma looked at Owlet, who was sitting very still on the other side of the chair, holding her mother’s hand and looking up into Roma’s face with large, solemn eyes. “Do not be distressed, my dear. It is over now,” the lady said. “Oh, I’m not. It does her good. She says it does. She had it once before, and it did her good. She said it did. Only she is so weak after it,” the child replied.