“Monsieur must come soon,” she said; “and then madame will be better, and we shall go back to Chateau des Fleurs and be so happy there.” But Margaret knew better. She would never go to Chateau des Fleurs—never see her husband again, and that grieved her the most, for all his neglect and coldness had not killed her love, and she longed for him now so much when she lay dying in Rome, with only her baby and Christine with her—Christine, to whom she said “God bless you, and reward you according to your kindness and faithfulness to me!” Margaret had meant it for a blessing, but it was really a curse, and it had followed Christine ever since, until now, when her sin was finding her out, and making her writhe with anguish and fear. “And yet I was kind to her,” she whispered; “and she died in my arms, with her head upon my breast, and she kissed me twice upon my lips; one was for me, she said, and one for the baby when she was old enough to know. Ah, me, those kisses! how they burn like fire! and I am burning, too—burning! Is there a hell, I wonder, and is it worse than the torment I am enduring?” Her mind was disordered, and she raved incoherently of Rome, and Chateau des Fleurs; and Paris, and Margaret, and Reinette, until she was utterly exhausted, and growing quiet, at last fell into a sleep so deep that she did not hear Margery when she let Mr. Beresford out and came up to her room. “Poor mother, she is resting sweetly, and I hope will be better to-morrow,” Margery said, as she bent over the sleeping woman, whose face looked so white, and worn, and pinched. The next morning, however, Mrs. La Rue did not attempt to get up. She was too weak and sick, she said, and should keep her bed all day. “And Margery,” she added, with quivering lip and a pleading tone, “don’t let any one in here, will you, if they come asking for me? Not any one; promise, Margery.” “No, mother, no one shall disturb you,” Margery said, soothingly, “and fortunately I have not much work on hand to-day, and can stay with you a great deal. I must finish Miss Ferguson’s sacque, and that is all. Now try to sleep again. I can’t have such a woeful-looking, pale-faced little mother on my hands. I shall have to send her off and get another one.” She spoke playfully, but every word was a stab to the miserable woman, who said again: “Remember, Margery, nobody is to come up here.” “No, mother, nobody. You are safer than the old bishop in his castle on the Rhine, for the rats did reach him there, and not so much as a mouse shall harm you here, so _au revoir_,” and with a kiss—the last—the very last, she would ever give as she gave that, she ran down stairs just as a carriage stopped at the gate and Reinette came rapidly up the walk. CHAPTER XXXIII. REINETTE’S INTERVIEW WITH MARGERY.