“Your voice is like a half-forgotten strain of music,” she said, sighing; “and your face--ah, it seems as if I must have seen it in the long ago, the happy time when I was young and life full of sunshine and flowers. Alas, child!” she added, sinking back upon her cushions again, “as the years roll on how the sunlight gives place to clouds and darkness, and the flowers fade and die! would that I could be young again!” “Were you always happy in your youthful days, Madame?” There were tears in the low, sweet voice that put the question. “No, no; indeed I believe I sometimes thought myself quite wretched!” exclaimed the Madame; “but I see now what a fool I was.” “Supper is ready, ladies,” announced Mary, throwing open the door of communication with the dressing-room. “Shall I wheel you in, Madame?” With a peevish reply in the negative the Madame rose and waddled to the table, preceded by Frisky, for whom a chair had been placed at her right hand. Floy was invited to the seat opposite her hostess, and, conscious of being a lady, accepted it with no feeling of surprise that it was accorded her. In fact, her thoughts were again far away, and scarcely to be recalled by the tempting nature of the repast or the magnificence of the solid silver and rare old china. Fortunately she was not called upon to talk or to listen, as Frisky was taking his supper after the same manner in which he had eaten his breakfast, Kathleen attending to him while Mary waited upon the table. The Madame ate and drank enormously, paying no heed to an occasional reminder from Mary that she would have to suffer for her over-indulgence. “You are a cruel creature! you would deprive me of the only pleasure left me in life!” she at length exclaimed passionately, as the girl almost absolutely refused to help her for the sixth time to fried oysters. “Madame,” replied Mary firmly, “you know the doctor has forbidden them altogether, and that an hour or two from now you’ll be abusing me for letting you have any at all.” At that the Madame rose, angrily pushed back her chair and retired in a pet to her room. CHAPTER XXII. REMORSE. “Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.” GOLDSMITH. Madame Le Conte did not appear again that evening. Floy returned to her work upon the new gown immediately upon leaving the table, and did not lay it aside again until the clock struck ten. Then Kathleen showed her to an adjoining bedroom, whose appointments seemed to carry her back to the happy days when she was the loved and petted only child of well-to-do parents. Less than a year ago she had seen the last of them, but how far, far away they already seemed! The young heart was sore with grief and care, and not for itself alone. But the worn-out body must have rest, and all was soon forgotten in sound, refreshing sleep.