The three drove home, as in the olden days, through the quiet country roads; the cabriolet, which had increased in size as had its occupants, groaned a little on its well-used springs. This noise took nothing from the charm of the drive, which the stars, so numberless in autumn, seemed to follow with a golden shower. “Are you cold, Jack?” said the doctor, suddenly. How could he be cold? The fringe of Cécile’s great shawl just touched him. Alas! why must there be a to-morrow to such delicious days? Jack knew now that he loved Cécile, but he realized also that this love would be to him only an additional cause of sorrow. She was too far above him, and although he had changed much since he had been so near her, although he had thrown aside much of the roughness of his habits and appearance, he still felt himself unworthy of the lovely fairy who had transformed him. The mere idea that the girl should know that he adored her was distasteful to him. Besides, as his bodily health returned, he began to grow ashamed of his hours of inaction in “the office.” What would she think of him should he continue to remain there? Cost what it would, he must go. One morning he entered M. Rivals’ house to thank him for all his kindness, and to inform him of his decision. “You are right,” said the old man; “you are well now bodily and mentally, and you can soon find some employment.” There was a long silence, and Jack was disturbed by the singular attention with which M. Rivals regarded him. “You have something to say to me,” said the doctor, abruptly. Jack colored and hesitated. “I thought,” continued the doctor, “that when a youth was in love with a girl who had no other relation than an old grandfather, the proper thing was to speak to him frankly.” Jack, without answering, hid his face in his hands. “Why are you so troubled, my boy?” continued his old friend. “I did not dare to speak to you,” answered Jack; “I am poor and without any position.” “You can remedy all this.” “But there is something else: you do not know that I am illegitimate!” “Yes, I know—and so is she,” said the doctor, calmly. “Now listen to a long story.” They were in the doctor’s library. Through the open window they saw a superb autumnal landscape, long country roads bordered with leafless trees; and beyond, the old country cemetery, its yew-trees prostrated, and its crosses upheaved. “You have never been there,” said M. Rivals, pointing out to Jack this melancholy spot. “Nearly in the centre is a large white stone, on which is the one word Madeleine. “There lies my daughter, Cécile’s mother. She wished to be placed apart from us all, and desired that only her Christian name should be put upon her tomb, saying that she was not worthy to bear the name of her father and mother. Dear child, she was so proud! She had done nothing to merit this exile after death, and if any should have been punished, it was I, an old fool, whose obstinacy brought all our misfortunes upon us.