Alixe went over, and, with Laure’s aid, unwrapped enough of the small creature for her to see its tiny, red face and feeble, fluttering hands. As she gently touched one of the cheeks, the wide, blue, baby eyes stared up at her, unwinking in their new wonder at the world; while Lenore watched them, eagerly, hungrily. Neither she nor Alixe noticed that Laure had moved off to a distance, and was staring dully out of a window. When Alixe had stood for some moments over the baby, wondering in her heart what to say to Lenore, the mother looked up at her with those newly unfathomable eyes, and said softly,— “Put her into my arms, Alixe.” Alixe did so, laying the infant carefully across the mother’s breast. Lenore’s arms closed around it, and her eyes fell shut while a smile of unutterable peace lighted up her gentle face. Alixe knew that it was time for her to go, and, moved as she had never been moved before in her young life, she started toward the door, glancing as she went at Laure, who followed her. “How beautiful she is!” whispered Alixe, as they stood together on the threshold. Laure nodded, but there was no sign of joy in her face. “Alas for them both!” she said quietly. “There have been enough daughters in Le Crépuscule.” To this Alixe could find no reply, and so, with a slight nod, she left the room and went down to the morning meal. Madame Eleanore was not there. After the strain of the past night, she had gone to her room a little after sunrise, leaving Laure to care for the young mother. At breakfast, then, Courtoise and Alixe sat nearest the head of the table, but they did not talk together. In fact, no one said very much during the course of the meal. Instead of the joyful gayety that might have been expected, now that their dead lord’s lady was safely through her trial, a dull gloom seemed to overhang everything, to weigh every one down: Courtoise ate in silence, heavy-browed and brooding, his head bent far over; David, in no humor for wit, scarcely spoke; even Alixe, whose heart had been somewhat lightened by the sight of Lenore and her happiness, presently succumbed to the atmosphere, and began to reflect that the last hope of the Castle was gone, that the line of Crépuscule had died forever. And neither she nor any one else paused to think that, if the little Twilight baby asleep upstairs had understood the true nature of her welcome into the world, she might readily have been persuaded to escape again, as rapidly as possible, into her blue ether, where pain and unwelcome were things unknown. When Alixe had eaten, she returned to the sick-room and, madame being still asleep, insisted upon taking Laure’s place till the weary girl had eaten and slept. Lenore had already taken some nourishment, and the baby had been fed; and, while the noon sunshine poured a flood of gold over the world, the mother and child drowsed happily together in their bed.