“Rose, dear, might it not be some person who has done us some wrong, and is perhaps penitent?” “Certainly; one of our tenants, or creditors, you mean; but then, the paper says ‘a friend.’ Stay, it says a debtor. Why a debtor? Down with enigmas!” “Rose, love,” said Josephine, coaxingly, “think of some one that might--since it is not the doctor, nor Monsieur Perrin, might it not be--for after all, he would naturally be ashamed to appear before me.” “Before you? Who do you mean?” asked Rose nervously, catching a glimpse now. “He who once pretended to love me.” “Josephine, you love that man still.” “No, no. Spare me!” “You love him just the same as ever. Oh, it is wonderful; it is terrible; the power he has over you; over your judgment as well as your heart.” “No! for I believe he has forgotten my very name; don’t you think so?” “Dear Josephine, can you doubt it? Come, you do doubt it.” “Sometimes.” “But why? for what reason?” “Because of what he said to me as we parted at that gate; the words and the voice seem still to ring like truth across the weary years. He said, ‘I am to join the army of the Pyrenees, so fatal to our troops; but say to me what you never yet have said, Camille, I love you: and I swear I will come back alive.’ So then I said to him, ‘I love you,’--and he never came back.” “How could he come here? a deserter, a traitor!” “It is not true; it is not in his nature; inconstancy may be. Tell me that he never really loved me, and I will believe you; but not that he is a traitor. Let me weep over my past love, not blush for it.” “Past? You love him to-day as you did three years ago.” “No,” said Josephine, “no; I love no one. I never shall love any one again.” “But him. It is that love which turns your heart against others. Oh, yes, you love him, dearest, or why should you fancy our secret benefactor COULD be that Camille?” “Why? Because I was mad: because it is impossible; but I see my folly. I am going in.” “What! don’t you care to know who I think it was, perhaps?” “No,” said Josephine sadly and doggedly; she added with cold nonchalance, “I dare say time will show.” And she went slowly in, her hand to her head. “Her birthday!” sighed Rose.