"I cannot bear to think of what you have endured for us," she said gently. "You have been so kind a friend, and this must seem like such terrible ingratitude! I could not understand it all--so much has come at the same time,"--she said, with a little trembling hesitation in her voice which made him long to break out into passionate pleading. But he answered her very quietly. "You need not think about it any more. Such a mistake could only be troublesome for a day or two. And when M. Moreau made his will, his choice of me as a trustee was sufficiently unaccountable to set tongues wagging. The very fact of my being his medical attendant then prevented any possibility of my benefiting under his will, as we all knew; but I suppose there are always people who think that money sticks in the fingering." She shook her head. "Fabien should not have believed it." "But remember," he said, more eagerly than he might have done if it had not been his rival whom he was defending--"there were quite enough odd circumstances to make him suspicious. I ought not to have left matters as I did in Roulleau's hands. You should recollect this. M. Saint-Martin had actual ground for his suspicions." Therese paused for a moment before she answered. "It was afterwards--when he knew they were false." "It is hard to shake off impressions." What could he say? His heart was torn in a hundred ways. He longed to help her--he feared to hurt her. When he looked at her sad face, all the anger in his nature leaped up against Fabien, and yet the very strength of his feelings made him fear to be ungenerous. Was it, indeed, all over between them? "About yourself?" he went on at last. "Ah, yes, about myself. Your troubles are not at an end, you see," she said, with a little quivering attempt at playfulness. "Am I to go on living with Madame Roulleau?" "I am afraid it will not do for you at all. I do not like your being there even now." "But I am not so sure. I have been thinking about it a great deal. At first I remembered that she used to say I was an expense; but yesterday, do you recollect, she said that the money they had from me was what they wanted? If I went away, do you think she would be poorer? or is it too little to help them?" "I am sure it helps them," said M. Deshoulieres, hesitating slightly. "And yet it seems to be very little. How much did my uncle leave me exactly?" "A thousand francs a year," he said, still reluctantly. "And that is all they have had? Ah, no, I perceive. Oh, what have you been doing!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears.