sound, her profile perfect, her nut-brown hair twisted into a knot,
and her head leaning forward somewhat, as though she had fallen asleep
while eagerly listening. At the farther end of the room the open door
of an adjoining closet seemed but a black square in the wall.

Still there was not a sound. The half-hour struck. The pendulum gave
but a feeble tick-tack amid the general drowsiness that brooded over
the whole chamber. Everything was sleeping, night-lamp and furniture
alike; on the table, near an extinguished lamp, some woman's handiwork
was disposed also in slumber. Helene in her sleep retained her air of
gravity and kindliness.

Two o'clock struck, and the stillness was broken. A deep sigh issued
from the darkness of the closet. There was a rustling of linen sheets,
and then silence reigned again. Anon labored breathing broke through
the gloom. Helene had not moved. Suddenly, however, she started up,
for the moanings and cries of a child in pain had roused her. Dazed
with sleep, she pressed her hands against her temples, but hearing a
stifled sob, she leaped from her couch on to the carpet.

"Jeanne! my Jeanne! what ails you? tell me, love," she asked; and as
the child remained silent, she murmured, while running towards the
night-light, "Gracious Heaven! why did I go to bed when she was so
ill?"

Quickly she entered the closet, where deep silence had again fallen.
The feeble gleam of the lamp threw but a circular patch of light on
the ceiling. Bending over the iron cot, she could at first make out
nothing, but amidst the bed-clothes, tossed about in disorder, the dim
light soon revealed Jeanne, with limbs quite stiff, her head flung