“Mother, dear mother! sit down, I pray you! Want of food, and that long, long journey yesterday, have made you wild.” “No, my child, they have made me wise.” “But you will not go out?” Madame had taken a bonnet and shawl in her hand. Marguerite forced them from her gently, but with firmness. “It is the fever, which is said to rage when plenty of food is taken after a long fast,” she said. “Let me put the things away.” Madame smiled, but held firmly to her garments. “You cannot comprehend,” she said; “but I will explain.” “Not now, mamma, but when you are better. The disappointment of not seeing the king, after so many efforts, is preying upon you; but do not despair—I am young and strong. The next time I will go to the king or to the queen. Perhaps I shall be more successful.” “Well, what then?” “I will kneel to him, and beseech him to set my father free.” “And then, ‘he is but one man!’” “But he is all the world to us!” said Marguerite, clasping her hands with pathetic earnestness. “I thought so once. God forgive me!” “Mother, there is something on your mind that I cannot understand. Put it aside, I pray you; or wait till Monsieur Jacques, or his friend comes, that you may counsel with them.” Madame sat down and drew a hand wearily across her eyes. It was true; great fatigue, want of food, and intense wakefulness, were telling fearfully upon her system, vigorous as it was. It is, sometimes, out of such insanity, that great actions are wrought. “Sit down and rest, mamma, after that I will listen to all you can say.” “And help me?” asked the woman, fastening her large, eager eyes on the girl’s face. “With all my power and strength. Only rest awhile, and take full time for thought.” “Ah! if I rest, this resolve may pass from me. I have had such dreams before,—that was in my sleep; but now, but now——” “Now you will lie down and sleep sweetly, while I take your place.” Madame sat down on the bed, releasing her hold on the shawl. “You are right, my child,” she said, gently. “I must have rest and strength before this great work begins; then you will understand it better, and we both have our task, yours not less difficult than mine.” “But you will rest first?” pleaded Marguerite, who looked upon this sudden outbreak as the result of over exertion, and was troubled by it. “Perhaps Our Lady will bless my poor efforts for your sake.” “Yes—I can wait,” said the mother, sinking back upon the bed, and closing her eyes. “To-day for rest, to-morrow for action.” Marguerite sat down by her mother, took one of her hands and smoothed it tenderly between her own palms, striving her best to induce the sleep which would, she trusted, restore the tone of her mother’s mind, which she believed to have been disturbed by great fatigue, and long fasting. But she was not the less resolved to assume some portion of the work to which that mother had almost given up her life.