"What ring?" exclaimed Mary Carr, surprised, even at such a moment, into curiosity. "The ring you wear is de la Chasse's engagement-ring," she continued, looking down at the plain circlet of gold, that was only kept on Adeline's emaciated finger by the smaller guard worn to protect it. She shook her head feebly. "_He_ will know." "What else, Adeline?" "Tell him my heart will be faithful to him in death, as it ever was in life. Nothing more." "Why did you not write to him--" asked Mary Carr, "a last letter?" "He might not have cared to receive it. There is _another_ now." The close of the afternoon came on. The nurse was sitting in her chair on one side the fireplace; Louise silently seesawed herself backwards and forwards upon another; Mary Carr was standing, in a listless attitude, before the fire, her elbow lodging on the mantelpiece; and Rose Darling sat on a low stool, half asleep, her head resting against Adeline's bed. They were all fatigued. In the next room were heard murmurings of conversation: M. de Castella talking with one of the medical men. Adeline, just then, was quiet, and appeared to be dozing. "I say, la garde," began Louise, in a low whisper, "is it true that mademoiselle asked old H---- this morning how many hours she should live?" The nurse nodded. "Chère enfant!" apostrophized Louise, through her tears. "And what did he say?" "What should he say?" retorted the nurse. "He does not know any more than we do." "What do _you_ think?" The nurse shook her head, rose from her seat, and bent over the bed to look at Adeline, who was lying with her face turned away. "She sleeps, I think, nurse," observed Rose, whom the movement had disturbed; and her own eyes closed again as she spoke. "I suppose she does, mademoiselle. I can't see her face; but, if she were not asleep, she wouldn't remain so quiet." "I heard a word dropped today," cried Louise, in a mysterious voice, as the nurse resumed her chair. "What word?" But there Louise stopped, pursed up her mouth, and dried her eyes, which, for the last fortnight or so, had been generally overflowing. "I don't know," resumed Louise. "It mayn't be true, and I am sure, if it should turn out not to be, _I_ shouldn't choose to say anything about it. So I had better hold my tongue." Now the most effectual way to induce Louise _not_ to hold her tongue, was to exhibit no curiosity as to anything she might appear disposed to communicate. The garde knew this, and for that reason, probably, sat silent. After awhile, Louise began again. "But it can do no harm to mention it amongst ourselves. It was Susanne told me, and of course she must have gathered it from madame. She said--you are sure she's asleep?" broke off Louise, looking round at the bed.