The little girl, having forgotten her fears, now refused to leave the lap of her new friend; nor could he bear to set her down. "But I must part you," said Elinor, smiling; "when I see you so distressed, I regret having brought her in." "Ah, madame, if you knew of what she reminds me!" "But if I may take you to be the hero of an interesting anecdote that I have by no means forgotten, I can easily guess--" "Well, yes, madame, it was I, and though she has betrayed and cast me off, after apparently choosing me, I have remained in spite of myself faithful to her memory, ever regretting a shadow, and pursuing a vain chimera, unable to die, or to live happy any longer." Elinor could hardly keep back her tears. "Then," she said timidly, "you love her still?" "I scarcely know if I do, if I am weak enough to love her still; but our meetings, the moments spent in her presence, her grace, even her capriciousness,--all are graven on my memory. She has bruised my soul, and taken the glamour from life for me." "Oh," cried Elinor in a heartbroken voice, "such constancy deserves reward. You may be sure that the day will come when she will return, humbled in her turn, softened, to heal the wounds she has caused and to win your pardon." "Never! For three years that proud, unfeeling woman has never condescended to send me as much as a word of remembrance. She has probably gone back to her own land, to India, America, or where not. She has triumphed, and must be laughing at my credulity, and I should like to forget her. Lately I have almost thought it might be possible, and perhaps, indeed," he added, in an altered voice, "I shall succeed only too soon." "You will forget her, Léon?" The words had been spoken in a voice of such tender reproach that Léon gazed at her. He saw that her eyes were full of tears. "Ah, madame," he said, after a moment's pause, "your sympathy is very dear to me! If only she had your nature, your responsive sensitiveness, I should be a happy man today. My own child, perhaps as pretty as yours, would be now sitting on my knee." Then, turning on Elinor his still languid eyes: "And her mother--close beside me--loving--" "These recollections only sadden you, and do you no good at all," said Elinor, shaking all over, and picking up her child. "Decidedly, I shall have to part you." "Forgive me, madame; I have been dreaming. But why wake me so soon?" Not daring to listen to another word, Elinor fled with her child to tell Mme. de Gernancé all that had passed between them. From that day, little Léonie was as assiduous as her mother in her attentions to the convalescent. He continually asked for her, and became passionately attached to her. The child, for her part, called him her friend, heaped kisses on him, and insisted on being always between him and her mother. Her artless affection for them both gave rise to many an embarrassing scene that was fraught with pleasure for Elinor, but left Léon ever more depressed and pensive.