“You look ill, too, Mademoiselle Rose.”

“Never mind,” cried the baroness joyously, “you will revive them both.”

Raynal made no reply to that.

“How long do you stay this time, a day?”

“A month, mother.”

The doctor now joined the party, and friendly greetings passed between him and Raynal.

But ere long somehow all became conscious this was not a joyful meeting.  The baroness could not alone sustain the spirits of the party, and soon even she began to notice that Raynal’s replies were short, and that his manner was distrait and gloomy.  The sisters saw this too, and trembled for what might be coming.

At last Raynal said bluntly, “Josephine, I want to speak to you alone.”

The baroness gave the doctor a look, and made an excuse for going down-stairs to her own room.  As she was going Josephine went to her and said calmly,—­

“Mother, you have not kissed me to-day.”

“There!  Bless you, my darling!”

Raynal looked at Rose.  She saw she must go, but she lingered, and sought her sister’s eye:  it avoided her.  At that Rose ran to the doctor, who was just going out of the door.

“Oh! doctor,” she whispered trembling, “don’t go beyond the door.  I found her praying.  My mind misgives me.  She is going to tell him—­or something worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am afraid to say all I dread.  She could not be so calm if she meant to live.  Be near! as I shall.  She has a phial hid in her bosom.”

She left the old man trembling, and went back.

“Excuse me,” said she to Raynal, “I only came to ask Josephine if she wants anything.”

“No!—­yes!—­a glass of eau sucree.”

Rose mixed it for her.  While doing this she noticed that Josephine shunned her eye, but Raynal gazed gently and with an air of pity on her.

She retired slowly into Josephine’s bedroom, but did not quite close the door.

Raynal had something to say so painful that he shrank from plunging into it.  He therefore, like many others, tried to creep into it, beginning with something else.

“Your health,” said he, “alarms me.  You seem sad, too.  I don’t understand that.  You have no news from the Rhine, have you?”

“Monsieur!” said Josephine scared.

“Do not call me monsieur, nor look so frightened.  Call me your friend.  I am your sincere friend.”

“Oh, yes; you always were.”

“Thank you.  You will give me a dearer title before we part this time.”

“Yes,” said Josephine in a low whisper, and shuddered.

“Have you forgiven me frightening you so that night?”

“Yes.”

“It was a shock to me, too, I can tell you.  I like the boy.  She professed to love him, and, to own the truth, I loathe all treachery and deceit.  If I had done a murder, I would own it.  A lie doubles every crime.  But I took heart; we are all selfish, we men; of the two sisters one was all innocence and good faith; and she was the one I had chosen.”