Then Jack rose in a sort of delirium. “I tell you she will not come. You do not know her, she is a heartless mother; all the misery of my miserable life has come from her! My heart is one huge wound, from the gashes she has cut in it. When he pretended to be ill, she went to him on wings, and would never again leave him; and I am dying, and she refuses to come to me. What a cruel mother! it is she who has killed me, and she does not wish to see me die!” Exhausted by this effort, Jack let his head fall back on the pillow, and the sister bent over him in gentle pity, while the brief winter’s day ended in a yellow twilight and occasional gusts of snow. Charlotte and D’Argenton descended from their carriage. They had just returned from a fashionable concert, and were carefully dressed in velvet and furs, light gloves and laces. She was in the best of spirits. Remember that she had just shown herself in public with her poet, and had shown herself, too, to be as pretty as she was ten years before. The complexion was heightened by the sharp wintry air, and the soft wraps in which she was enveloped added to her beauty as does the satin and quilted lining of a casket enhance the brilliancy of the gems within. Â woman of the people stood on the sidewalk, and rushed forward on seeing her. “Madame, madame! come at once!” “Madame Bélisaire!” cried Charlotte, turning pale. “Your child is very ill; he asks for you!” “But this is a persecution,” said D’Argenton. “Let us pass. If the gentleman is ill, we will send him a physician.” “He has physicians, and more than he wants, for he is at the hospital.” “At the hospital!” “Yes, he is there just now, but not for very long. I warn you, if you wish to see him you must hurry.” “Come on, Charlotte, come on! It is a frightful lie. It is some trap laid ready for you;” and the poet drew Charlotte to the stairs. “Madame, your son is dying! Ah, God, is it possible that a mother can have a heart like this!” Charlotte turned toward her. “Show me where he is,” she said; and the two women hurried through the streets, leaving D’Argenton in a state of rage, convinced that it was a mere device of his enemies. Just as Madame Bélisaire left the hospital, two persons hurried in,—a young girl and an old man. A divine face bent over Jack. “It is I, my love, it is Cécile.” It was indeed she. It was her fair pale face, paler than usual by reason of her tears and her watchings; and the hand that held his was the slender one that had already brought the youth such happiness, and yet did its part in bringing him where we now see him; for fate is often cruel enough to strike you through your dearest and best. The sick youth opens his weary eyes to see that he is not dreaming. Cécile is really there; she implores his pardon, and explains why she gave him such pain. Ah, if she had but known that their destinies were so similar!