“I suppose you can not quite enter into my feelings, mother. I saved the little thing’s life, and somehow she almost seems to belong to me. You can not think how sweet and winning she is, too. What a sunshine she would make in this quiet old house!” “You can not dream of adopting her!” she cried, appalled. “Certainly not--under the circumstances,” he replied, grimly. He paused a moment, then added: “Otherwise, nothing would give me more pleasure than to claim my protégée as an adopted daughter.” “You are mad!” she cried, in dismay. “I do not think so,” he replied, gently. A slight flush crept up to his temples as he added: “I do not believe that my wife will ever give me a child of my own to love, yet it is but natural I should desire one.” The same pang, the same regret had touched her own heart, but she had borne it in silence. The tears started to her eyes as she said: “We must keep on hoping, keep on waiting. In any case, Norman, think no more of this wild fancy. It is impossible you should defy Camille in this affair. Take my advice and carry Sweetheart away early to-morrow to some friend who will take care of her until her friends are found. She will be safe with me to-night.” “Safe!” he cried, in a startled tone. “Mother, you do not mean--” “I mean nothing only that I will keep Sweetheart with me to-night, but that you must take her away to-morrow,” she replied, firmly, adding as he moved to the door: “Remember your first duty is to your wife. Go now and try to make your peace with her, dear boy.” The dark eyes flashed. “Good-night, mother,” he said, with sudden coldness, and went out. The shrill screams that had gone with him up the stairway a little while before were silent now. He had heard a bustle in the hall shortly before, and he knew that the servants had carried their hysterical mistress upstairs. He went softly along the hall and tapped at the door. It opened quietly. Mlle. Finette showed her sallow face, beady black eyes and smart cap in the crevice of the door. “How is your mistress?” he asked. “Vair mooch bettaire, and asleep, m’sieur.” “Did she leave me any message?” “_Non, m’sieur_; but she ordered me to stay by her bed all the night,” her eyes snapping maliciously. “Very well,” he said, calmly, turning away and going down the hall toward the stairway. He was eager to get into the open air. The house seemed stifling. The night breeze struck coolly on his heated brow as he let himself out at the back door and walked wearily toward a beautiful grove of orange-trees now in the full glory of blossom and fruit. Their tropical fragrance blended deliciously with the odor of Maréchal Neil roses that clambered over a picturesque summer-house near at hand. He went inside and sunk heavily into a rustic chair.