He was just beginning to be jealous of Josephine when the following incident occurred:-- Rose and the doctor were discussing Josephine. Edouard pretended to be reading a book, but he listened to every word. Dr. Aubertin gave it as his opinion that Madame Raynal did not make enough blood. “Oh! if I thought that!” cried Rose. “Well, then, it is so, I assure you.” “Doctor,” said Rose, “do you remember, one day you said healthy blood could be drawn from robust veins and poured into a sick person’s?” “It is a well-known fact,” said Aubertin. “I don’t believe it,” said Rose, dryly. “Then you place a very narrow limit to science,” said the doctor, coldly. “Did you ever see it done?” asked Rose, slyly. “I have not only seen it done, but have done it myself.” “Then do it for us. There’s my arm; take blood from that for dear Josephine!” and she thrust a white arm out under his eye with such a bold movement and such a look of fire and love as never beamed from common eyes. A keen, cold pang shot through the human heart of Edouard Riviere. The doctor started and gazed at her with admiration: then he hung his head. “I could not do it. I love you both too well to drain either of life’s current.” Rose veiled her fire, and began to coax. “Once a week; just once a week, dear, dear doctor; you know I should never miss it. I am so full of that health, which Heaven denies to her I love.” “Let us try milder measures first,” said the doctor. “I have most faith in time.” “What if I were to take her to Frejus? hitherto, the sea has always done wonders for her.” “Frejus, by all means,” said Edouard, mingling suddenly in the conversation; “and this time I will go with you, and then I shall find out where you lodged before, and how the boobies came to say they did not know you.” Rose bit her lip. She could not help seeing then how much dear Edouard was in her way and Josephine’s. Their best friends are in the way of all who have secrets. Presently the doctor went to his study. Then Edouard let fall a mock soliloquy. “I wonder,” said he, dropping out his words one by one, “whether any one will ever love me well enough to give a drop of their blood for me.” “If you were in sickness and sorrow, who knows?” said Rose, coloring up. “I would soon be in sickness and sorrow if I thought that.” “Don’t jest with such matters, monsieur.” “I am serious. I wish I was as ill as Madame Raynal is, to be loved as she is.” “You must resemble her in some other things to be loved as she is. “You have often made me feel that of late, dear Rose.” This touched her. But she fought down the kindly feeling. “I am glad of it,” said she, out of perverseness. She added after a while, “Edouard, you are naturally jealous.” “Not the least in the world, Rose, I assure you. I have many faults, but jealous I am not.” “Oh, yes, you are, and suspicious, too; there is something in your character that alarms me for our happiness.”