For a fortnight Madame Berthier remained delirious with brain fever. At the end of that time she began to recover, but her memory was impaired. She remembered nothing of her confinement in the Bastille, nothing of her pursuit of Berthier and of the subsequent events. Only hazily did the form of her husband present itself to her mind; it was a note which cyphered, and therefore disturbed, the harmony of memory. Her former freakish predilections for the colour yellow had suddenly changed into aversion. It was somehow connected with an event which had disappeared from the range of her thoughts; and, as a thread leading nowhere, it irritated her without her being able to account for it. The cat also was forgotten. She did not allude to him once. But she distinctly knew Gabrielle. Perhaps if the yellow Gabriel had been brought to her she would have recognised him. She did not know when she had made the girl's acquaintance, or where she had first met her; but she knew her face and her name. Her great delight, on her recovery, was to listen to the corporal and Nicholas conversing about their native land. She paid the greatest attention to their words, laughed childishly, and smiled at Gabrielle. But especially was she gratified with the song, 'Heart, my heart, why art thou weary?' Nicholas played it to her on his flageolet, and the corporal sang it, till the poor woman knew it by heart. One day she was sitting in the window, propped up with pillows, looking out at the roof-tops, and the blue sky over them. No one was in the room; but Gabrielle, who had left it for a few minutes, on returning found her singing in a plaintive voice, and crying softly,-- 'Heart, my heart, why art thou weary, Why to grief and tears a prey? Foreign lands are bright and cheery; Heart, my heart, what ails thee, say? That which ails me past appeasing, I am lost, a stranger here; What, though foreign lands be pleasing, Home, sweet home, alone is dear.' Then, turning to Gabrielle, she asked when they were going. 'Where would you go, dear mistress?' asked the girl. 'Home, to native rocks and sky,' she answered; and then sang,-- 'Through the fragrant pine-boughs bending, I should see the glacier shine; See the nimble goats ascending Gentian-dappled slopes in line. See the cattle, hear the tinkle Of the merry-clashing bells; See white sheep the pastures sprinkle In the verdant dewy dells.' 'Do you know, Gabrielle,' said the lady, interrupting her song, 'the cow-bells are the most beautiful music in the world? Call Nicholas here. He will tell you the same.' As she insisted, Gabrielle was obliged to go to the young man's workshop, and summon him. 'I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nicholas, but madame is resolved to hear from you that cow-bells make beautiful music.'