It was a room overlooking the lawn and shrubberies, which, at that season, were carpeted and draped with snow; and she sat one morning, looking out--on the white ground, on the shrouded trees, on the red sun beyond, hanging like a pink balloon close to the cold and foggy marshes, through which flowed the sullen Thames. By her side stood the French girl Adèle, who, throughout the sickness, had been her voluntary nurse, and had watched her with extraordinary tenderness and care. ‘You are stronger to-day than ever, mademoiselle,’ she was saying in French; ‘you will soon be able to leave this room.’ The invalid sat silent, her eyes on the dreary, winter landscape, her pale beautiful face set like a mask of utter forlornness and despair; then slowly, convulsively, her bosom shook, her eyes filled, and large tears coursed silently over her cheek. ‘O mademoiselle, do not weep! It breaks my heart to see you. Courage! Are you not nearly well? Ah, yes! and there will be happy days in store for you, after so great trouble.’ The invalid smiled sadly, and shook her head; then reaching out a wasted hand, she took one of the French girl’s. ‘Adèle!’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Did you ever care for any one very, very much? I don’t mean foolishly, like young girls who think they love; but passionately, religiously, with your whole heart and soul? I do not speak of women, but of men, Adèle; though there are good women too.’ With a curiously beautiful shame Adèle turned her face away, while a faint flush crept over her face. After a moment she replied evasively:-- ‘There are few good men, mademoiselle.’ ‘But have you known none?’ ‘Yes, one--one only,’ replied Adèle with sudden warmth, ‘and I think there is no other like him in the world. Ah, mademoiselle, it is so strange that you should ask me, since he is coming here to see me this very day.’ ‘Tell me about him, Adèle,’ said the invalid gently. ‘To tell you truly all he is, mademoiselle, I should have to tell you all I have been, and then, you might hate me! But no, you are too good. I know you have never been _there_---where he found me--in the life which is worse than hell. If you have been unfortunate, you have not-been to blame; but I--I have been a devil, tempted by a devil! Ah, yes!’ As she proceeded, the girl seemed to yield more and more to the hysterical excitement of her temperament and race. Her face went ghastly pale, her eyes swam with tears, her hands opened and shut convulsively. ‘Do not speak of it,’ said the other, taking her hand again gently--‘since it gives you such pain.’ ‘No, mademoiselle, let me speak,’ returned Adèle struggling with her agitation, ‘but I will not speak of _that_, but of him who raised me from it and saved my life for God. Twice, mademoiselle, he came like the angel he is; the first time it was too soon; the second time I thought it was the Lord Himself, standing--ah, so beautiful!--at my bedside.’