As they sat together waiting, there was still that same contrast, which you felt rather than saw, between these two. They might have posed as the models of Resignation and Unrest. The look of patient waiting was five years old upon the face of Olive Girard. Five years ago she had been so happy--a bride, beautiful and beloved. Beautiful she was still--with the beauty of shadow; beloved too, but how sadly! Philip Girard had been convicted of a great crime, and for five long years had worn a felon's garb, and borne the anguish of one set apart from all the world. The hand that had darkened the life of Olive Girard, and the hand that had turned the young days of the girl Madeline into a burden, was one and the same. Afterwards Madeline listened to the pathetic history of Olive's sorrow. Sitting in that great lounging chair, Madeline looked very fair, very childlike. Sadly sweet were her large, deep eyes, and her hair, shorn while the fever raged, clustered in soft tiny rings about her slender, snowy neck and blue-veined temples. She had not been permitted to talk much during her convalescence, and Olive had as yet gleaned only a general outline of her story. "Mrs. Girard," said the girl, resting her pale cheek in the palm of a thin, tiny hand, "you once said something to me about--about some one who had been wronged by--" Something sadder than tears choked her utterance. As Olive turned her grave clear eyes away from the window, and fixed them in expectation upon her; Madeline's own eyes fell. She sat before her benefactress with downcast lids, and the hateful name unuttered. "I know," said Olive, after a brief silence; "I referred to a girl now lying in the hospital. She is very young, and has been cruelly wronged by him. She is poor, as you may judge, and earned her living in the ballet at the theater. She was thrown from a carriage which had been furnished her by _him_, to carry her home from some rendezvous--of course the driver took care of himself and his horses. The poor girl was picked up and carried to the hospital. She was without friends and almost penniless. She sent to him--for him; he returned no answer. She begged for help, for enough to enable her to obtain what was needed in her illness. Message after message was sent, and finally a reply came, brought by a messenger who had been bidden to insist upon receiving an answer. The servant said that his master had directed him to say to any messenger who called, that he was out of town." "The wretch! He deserves death!" Madeline's eyes blazed, and she lifted her head with some of her olden energy. "Softly, my dear: 'Thou shalt do no murder.'" "It is not murder to kill a human tiger!" Olive made no answer. "Is she still very ill, this girl?" questioned Madeline. "She can not recover." "Shall I see her?" "If you wish to; do you?" "Yes." Another long pause; then Madeline glanced up at her friend, and said listlessly: "What do you intend to do with me?"