"No, no. They did not mean to be unkind. Oh dear no! nothing of the sort. But--things sting--when people do not mean it." The Countess softly stroked the cedar hair. She hardly understood the explanation. Things of that sort did not sting her. But this she understood and felt full sympathy with--that her one cherished darling was in trouble. "Who was it, Magot?" "Do not ask me, Lady. I did not mean to complain of any one. And nobody intended to hurt me." "What did she say?" "She said,"--something like a sob came here--"that I was one who could settle to work, and get interested in other things, and forget a lost love. But, she said, it would kill her in a month." "Well, darling? I began to hope that was true." "No," came in a very low voice. It was not a quick, warm denial like that of Eva, yet one which sounded far more hopelessly conclusive. "No. O Mother, no!" "And thou art still fretting in secret, my dove?" "I do not know about fretting. I think that is too energetic a word. It would be better to say--dying." "Magot, mine own, my sunbeam! Do not use such words!" "It is better to see the truth, Lady. And that is true. But I do not think it will be over in a month." The Countess could not trust herself to speak. She went on stroking the soft hair. "Father Bruno says that love can kill weak people. I suppose I am weak. I feel as if I should be glad when it is all done with." "When what is done with?" asked the Countess, in a husky tone. "Living," said the girl. "This weary round of dressing, eating, working, talking, and sleeping. When it is all done, and one may lie down to sleep and not wake to-morrow,--I feel as if that were the only thing which would ever make me glad any more." "My heart! Dost thou want to leave me?" "I would have lived, Lady, for your sake, if I could have done. But I cannot. The rosebud that you loved is faded: it cannot give out scent any more. It is not me,--me, your Margaret--that works, and talks, and does all these things. It is only my body, which cannot die quite so fast as my soul. My heart is dead already." "My treasure! I will have Master Aristoteles to see to thee. I really hoped thou wert getting over it." "It is of no use trying to keep me," she answered quietly. "You had better let me go--Mother." The Countess's reply was to clap her hands--at that time the usual method of summoning a servant. When Levina tapped at the door, instead of bidding her enter, her mistress spoke through it. "Tell Master Aristoteles that I would speak with him in this chamber." The mother and daughter were both very still until the shuffling of the physician's slippered feet was heard in the passage. Then the Countess roused herself and answered the appeal with "Come in." "My Lady desired my attendance?"