"Yes," said Pradelle, as the door closed on the sergeant's retiring figure; "pleasant for you. I always hated you for a sneering old crab. It's your time to feel now." "Silence, you scoundrel!" cried Uncle Luke, fiercely. "She's coming to." Uncle Luke was wrong, for Louise only moaned slightly, and then relapsed into insensibility, from which a doctor who was fetched did not seem to recall her, and hour after hour of patient watching followed, but Harry did not return. "The bird has been scared, sir," said Parkins, entering the room at last. "I can't ask you to stay longer. There's a cab at the door to take the lady to your hotel." "But are you sure--that--my poor boy lives?" "Certain, sir, now. I've had his description from the people down below. I shall have him before to-night." "L'homme propose, mais--" Five minutes later Louise, quite insensible, was being borne to the hotel; Mr Pradelle, to an establishment offering similar advantages as to bed and board, but with the freedom of ingress and egress left out. Volume 3, Chapter XIX. DIOGENES DISCOVERS. "Blame you, my dear? No, no, of course not. Then you knew nothing about it till that night when he came to the window?" "Oh no, uncle dear." Louise started up excitedly from the couch at the hotel upon which she was lying, while the old man trotted up and down the room. "Now, now, now," he cried piteously, but with exceeding tenderness, as he laid his hand upon her brow, and pressed her back till her head rested on the pillow. "Your head's getting hot again, and the doctor said you were not to be excited in any way. There, let's talk about fishing, or sea-anemones, or something else." "No, no, uncle dear, I must talk about this, or I shall be worse." "Then for goodness' sake let's talk about it," he said eagerly, as he took a chair by her side and held her hand. "You don't blame me then--very much." "Well, say not very much; but it's not very pleasant to have a nephew who makes one believe he's dead, and a niece who pretends that she has bolted with a scampish Frenchman." "Uncle, uncle," she cried piteously. "You see it has been a terrible upset for me, while as to your poor father--" "But, uncle, dear, what could I do?" "Well, when you were writing, you might have said a little more." "I wrote what poor Harry forced me to write. What else could I say?" "You see, it has upset us all so terribly. George--I mean your father-- will never forgive you." "But you do not put yourself in my place, uncle. Think of how Harry was situated; think of his horror of being taken. Indeed, he was half mad." "No: quite, Louie; and you seem to have caught the complaint." "I hardly knew what I did. It was like some terrible dream. Harry frightened me then." "Enough to frighten any one, appearing like a ghost at the window when we believed he was dead."