At first she could not realize why she was lying upon the sofa, so weak and languid, but presently the remembrance came to her, and she closed her eyes again wearily, with a low, helpless moan. “There, darling, you are better now; drink this, and it will give you new strength,” said her aunt, putting some wine to her lips. She obeyed, and the color soon began to tinge her pale lips again. Madame Alroyd bent tenderly over her and pressed a kiss upon her pure brow. “Have courage, my precious pet,” she whispered. “Show your brave little heart now. You are all that poor old auntie has got, and must try and live for her.” “Do you know—did you read? she gasped, a look of stony agony in her deep eyes. “Yes, love; I knew I might; and, oh, darling, this poor old withered heart has suffered, too. I know how it feels, and the sting is there yet. The thorn is left, if the rose is faded and dead.” And poor, sympathizing Madame Alroyd took the pale, crushed lily in her arms, and sobbed as if the sweetness of her own life had been just crushed out, instead of years and years ago. And Dora cried, too; the tears came like a flood, and they did her good, though she felt as if life held no joy for her now. But she would live as happily as she could for her dear aunt’s sake, who had made her life so happy the past six years. She passed her night of sorrow alone, and when morning came she rose up calm and proud, and pale and cold as an iceberg. Not another tear did Madame Alroyd see, not another sob did she hear. Dora’s heart might have been impregnable marble, after that first wild burst of sorrow, for any outward appearance of grief. No queen could have borne herself more proudly and coldly at the offense of some criminal, than did Dora Dupont after she believed that she was forsaken; and her aunt being a woman of the world, exulted at the spirit she showed, while in her secret heart she wondered at her powers of endurance. CHAPTER XVI. SIGNING AN AGREEMENT. Madame Alroyd and her niece were sitting quietly in their room, the morning after the reception of that fatal note. Both were trying to busy themselves about some light fancy work, to drive away the agony that was tugging so fiercely at their heart-strings, and failing most miserably, as their white, wan faces plainly showed. Not a word was spoken about Robert’s faithlessness; only when they met that morning, madam had taken Dora tenderly in her arms, kissed her, and murmured some loving and soothing words of fondness, and calling her by all the pet names she had at her command. But Dora gently withdrew from her aunt’s fond embrace, with a low, “Please don’t, auntie!” while her face grew a shade paler, and she caught her breath convulsively. So the subject was dropped, for madam knew she could bear it better if let alone, and so she said no more, and Dora subsided into her icy calmness again.