anger which accompanies fear. Madame laughed an ugly laugh, and said--

'Eh bien! little fool!--I will not tell the rest if you are really
frightened; let us change to something else.'

'Yes, yes! oh, do--pray do.'

'Wat good man is your father!'

'Very--the kindest darling. I don't know why it is, Madame, I am so afraid
of him, and never could tell him how much I love him.'

This confidential talking with Madame, strange to say, implied no
confidence; it resulted from fear--it was deprecatory. I treated her as if
she had human sympathies, in the hope that they might be generated somehow.

'Was there not a doctor from London with him a few months ago? Dr. Bryerly,
I think they call him.'

'Yes, a Doctor Bryerly, who remained a few days. Shall we begin to walk
towards home, Madame? Do, pray.'

'Immediately, cheaile; and does your father suffer much?'

'No--I think not.'

'And what then is his disease?'

'Disease! he has _no_ disease. Have you heard anything about his health,
Madame?' I said, anxiously.