The January morning wore along, and by and by the fitful chatter became more fitful: the pauses grew longer; for every one was weary with work, and with the incessant noise of loom and wheel. Laure, who through the morning had been covertly watching Lenore at her task, saw that the young woman had grown paler than was her wont, and that the shadows under her eyes had deepened till their effect against her pallor was startling. Gradually Lenore’s hands moved more slowly. She would pause for a moment, and then, with a slight start, return to her work with so conscious an effort that Laure was more than once on the point of crying to her to stop. Presently, however, Lenore herself looked toward madame’s chair with an appeal in her eyes and a faintly murmured word on her lips. Eleanore glanced at her, and then rose at once and went over to her side. “Why didst thou not speak sooner? Go quickly to thy room and lie down. Shall I send Alixe with thee?” “Nay! Let me rather be alone!” And Lenore, hastily gathering her work into her arms, slipped from her place and was gone from the room. The little scene caused no comment. Only Laure, who was not accustomed to the sight of Lenore’s transparent skin and almost startling frailty, sat thinking about her after she was gone. How forlorn must be her poor existence! If she had greatly loved Gerault,—and surely any maiden would have loved him,—how gray her world must have become! how without hope her life! Laure lost herself completely in a revery of Lenore’s sorrows, and forgot, for the time, how weary she herself was: how her foot ached with treading the wheel, and how irritated were her finger-tips with the long unaccustomed manipulation of thread. But it came as an intense relief when she heard her mother say softly,— “Go thou, Laure, to thy sister’s room. Make her comfortable, if thou canst. Take the wheel also with thee and finish thy skein there.” “Nay, madame. The whirl of the wheel is distressing to Lenore; I saw it while she sat here. I will finish after noon if thou wilt, but Lenore must not be disturbed.” Madame nodded to her, and Laure slipped away, not noticing how Alixe’s eyes followed her, or what disappointment was written in her face. For hitherto this ministering to Lenore had fallen to Alixe’s share, and it had been the proudest pleasure of her life. Lenore was lying upon her bed, which, some weeks previously, had been moved over close beside the windows of her room, that she might always have a view of the sea. When Laure entered, she scarcely moved, and her great eyes continued to rove round the room. The new-comer paused in the doorway and gazed at her a moment or two before she asked: “May I enter? May I come and sit beside you?”