I tried to speak gently to her. I saw that her present position must be a trial. I advised her to take more rest, or she would break down altogether, for she was weak and nervous; I hinted that she might have to give up entirely, if she continued to tax herself heedlessly; and, finally, that I would speak to Mrs. Falchion about her. I was scarcely prepared for her action then. Tears came to her eyes, and she said to me, her hand involuntarily clasping my arm: “Oh no, no! I ask you not to speak to madame. I will sleep--I will rest. Indeed, I will. This service is so much to me. She is most generous. It is because I am so altogether hers, night and day, that she pays me well. And the money is so much. It is my honour--my dead brother’s honour. You are kind at heart; you will make me strong with medicine, and I will ask God to bless you. I could not suffer such poverty again. And then, it is my honour!” I felt that she would not have given way thus had not her nerves been shaken, had she not lived so much alone, and irregularly, so far as her own rest and comfort were concerned, and at such perpetual cost to her energy. Mrs. Falchion, I knew, was selfish, and would not, or could not, see that she was hard upon the girl, by such exactions as midnight reading and loss of sleep. She demanded not merely physical but mental energy--a complete submission of both; and when this occurred with a sensitive, high-strung girl, she was literally feeding on another’s life-blood. If she had been told this, she, no doubt, would have been very much surprised. I reassured Justine. I told her that I should say nothing directly to Mrs. Falchion, for I saw she was afraid of unpleasantness; but I impressed upon her that she must spare herself, or she would break down, and extorted a promise that she would object to sitting up after midnight to read to Mrs. Falchion. When this was done, she said: “But, you see, it is not madame’s fault that I am troubled.” “I do not wish,” I said, “to know any secret,--I am a doctor, not a priest,--but if there is anything you can tell me, in which I might be able to help you, you may command me in so far as is possible.” Candidly, I think I was too inquiring in those days. She smiled wistfully, and replied: “I will think of what you say so kindly, and perhaps, some day soon, I will tell you of such trouble as I have. But, believe me, it is no question of wrong at all, by any one--now. The wrong is over. It is simply that a debt of honour must be satisfied; it concerns my poor dead brother.” “Are you going to relatives in France?” I asked. “No; I have no relatives, no near friends. I am alone in the world. My mother I cannot remember; she died when I was very young. My father had riches, but they went before he died. Still, France is home, and I must go there.” She turned her head away to the long wastes of sea.