next can be expected of her?--or rather to what extent will Destiny
permit her to go before the bolt of destruction falls? "Thus far,
and no farther" has ever been the Principle of Nature--and Paris has
almost touched the "Thus far."

Sitting quietly in her tidy kitchen near the open window, after the
Cardinal's departure, Madame Patoux knitted busily, her thoughts
flying faster than her glittering needles. A certain vague
impression of solemnity had been left on her mind by the events of
the morning,--she could not quite reason out the why or the
wherefore of it--and yet--it was a fact that after Monseigneur had
gone, she had, when entering the rooms he had vacated, felt a
singular sense of awe.

"Almost as if one were in the Cathedral at the ringing of the
'Sanctus'" she murmured under her breath, glancing about timidly at
the plain furniture and bare walls. And after putting everything in
order, she closed and locked the doors jealously, with a
determination that she would not let those rooms to the first
chance-comer for a long time,--no, though she might have to lose
money by her refusal. And now, as she sat actively employed in
knitting socks for Henri, whom she could see sitting with his sister
outside on the bench under the house porch, reading or pretending to
read, she began to wonder what opinion those two young miscreants
had formed in their minds respecting the Cardinal, and also what
they thought of the boy who had been taken so suddenly under his
protection. She was almost tempted to call Henri and ask him a few
questions on the subject,--but she had learnt to value peace and
quietness when she could secure those rare blessings at the hands of
her children, and when they were employed with a book and visibly