so much to her to have had him as a dear contemporary and friend.
One foggy morning in late December when the whole world seemed bounded by the thick yellow fog which pressed against her window panes, Dawson brought her a letter bearing a French stamp. She knew the handwriting at once, though it had been firmer in the old days. She read a few lines of it, then stopped and turned to her maid who was busy about the room.
"Dawson," said Madame Claire in a voice that was far from steady, "here's a letter from Mr. de Lisle."
"Oh, m'lady!" cried Dawson who loved surprises, "it's like a voice from the grave, isn't it now?"
"He's not well," continued her mistress, reading on. "Gout he says, poor old thing. He writes from Cannes, where he's gone for the sunshine. He has to have a nurse. How he must hate it!"
"And you as strong and well as ever," exulted Dawson. It was a source of peculiar joy to her when any of Madame Claire's contemporaries fell victims to the maladies of old age, or that severest malady of all, death. Her beloved mistress seemed to her then like the winner in a
