"Have I not?" said Lucy, pointing to some drops that had fallen on the sleeve of her night-dress.
"They are on you, not on me. I will first tell the story to Mrs, Hartell—she will believe you—never—never."
"But Mr. Hartell will believe me; and as surely as he returns to-morrow I will tell him the whole truth."
Adéle's hardihood now forsook her utterly. She saw the abyss opening at her feet, and falling on her knees and wringing her hands, she besought Lucy to have pity on her. "I am away from my country," she said; "I left all to come with Mrs. Hartell—I have no friend in this country—nobody will care for me—nobody will pity me."
"I do pity you, Adéle—but —"
"But you will tell all to monsieur; is that what you call pity? Oh, Dieu merci! he will be like one tiger to me."
"And what have you been to this poor little helpless child that was trusted to you, Adéle? think of that." Lucy had taken up Eugene, and he had quietly lain his head on her bosom, and was looking up into her face as if he knew she was his guardian angel. Lucy caressed him tenderly; and then turning up the sleeve of his night-dress, she showed Adéle the traces of her violence on his arm. Adéle well understood her, but she said nothing. She perceived there was no use in any further lies to Lucy; and when Lucy added, "I know what my duty is; and though, as I told you, Adéle, I am very sorry for you, I will certainly do it." Adéle saw there was no use in any further supplication. She rose from her knees, and, after a
