It was as Graham said; all was nearly over. The feeble life, that with careful tending and cherishing might have flickered and lingered on yet a little longer, was all but quenched in this last supreme passion and effort. M. Linders never spoke again, and died in less than two hours, quietly at last, as men do for the most part die, it is said. "That poor child!" said Graham, "who will tell her?" "I will," said the brave, cheery little Soeur Angelique, and went. * * * * * * It was nearly midnight when the sad little bustle that had been going on in the chamber of death was hushed at last, and the Soeur de Charite prepared to depart. She had offered indeed to stay all night, but when Graham assured her that there was no occasion for any one to remain, as his room was just opposite, and he should be on the watch to see that all was quiet, she owned that she should be glad to go, as there was much illness about, and her services might be required elsewhere. She stood talking to Graham for a few moments before leaving. "That poor little one," she said, "I should like to have one look at her, just to see that she is quiet; I don't think she half understood, or took in, what I said to her." "Madame Lavaux told me she was in bed," Graham answered, "but we will see if she is asleep. Poor child, she will understand it all soon enough." He opened the door gently between the two rooms, and they looked in. All was dark and silent, but they could just distinguish a little head laid on the white pillow, and could hear Madelon's soft, regular breathing. "That is all right," said Graham, "we will not go in and disturb her; she will sleep till the morning, I daresay, for she was up almost all last night." He closed the door again as he spoke, and so they left her.