"I am always the same," was the quiet answer; "come nearer still. Your
visits cheer me."

And as these last words were said, Madame Dalibard raised herself from
her recumbent posture and gazed long upon Ardworth's face of power and
front of thought. "You overfatigue yourself, my poor kinsman," she said,
with a certain tenderness; "you look already too old for your young
years."

"That's no disadvantage at the Bar."

"Is the Bar your means, or your end?"

"My dear Madame Dalibard, it is my profession."

"No, your profession is to rise. John Ardworth," and the low voice
swelled in its volume, "you are bold, able, and aspiring; for this, I
love you,--love you almost--almost as a mother. Your fate," she
continued hurriedly, "interests me; your energies inspire me with
admiration. Often I sit here for hours, musing over your destiny to be,
so that at times I may almost say that in your life I live."

Ardworth looked embarrassed, and with an awkward attempt at compliment he
began, hesitatingly: "I should think too highly of myself if I could
really believe that you--"

"Tell me," interrupted Madame Dalibard,--"we have had many conversations
upon grave and subtle matters; we have disputed on the secret mysteries
of the human mind; we have compared our several experiences of outward