am the Marquis Lyonel de Fervlans," he repeated in a patronizing tone.

"I am Alfred Cambray," was the simple response.

"Ah? Pray, have the kindness to tell us--the friends of the
countess--what has happened?"

M. Cambray related how and where he had found the lost child, the
company listening with eager attention. All were deeply affected. Some
of the women wept. When M. Cambray concluded his recital, the marquis
grasped both his hands, and, pressing them warmly, said in a trembling
voice:

"Thanks, many thanks, you brave, good man! We will never forget your
kindness."

One of the physicians now came from the boudoir, and announced that the
countess was better, and desired to speak to the deliverer of her child.

The countess was reclining on an ottoman, half buried in luxurious
cushions. Her little daughter was kneeling by her side, her head resting
on her mother's knee. It was a charming tableau.

"I am not able to express my gratitude, monsieur," began the countess,
in a faint voice, extending both hands toward M. Cambray. "I hope you
will allow me to call you my friend. I shall never cease to thank you!
Amélie, my love, kiss this hand; look at this face; impress it on your
heart, and never, _never_ forget it, for this brave gentleman rescued
you from a most horrible fate."