Zodiac Stories/Virgo

by Blanche Mary Channing

VIRGO, THE VIRGIN

HE château of Montarbre was a gloomy-looking old building, with narrow windows, and immensely thick walls. It had been built in times of war and danger, when no one was safe unless a good, strong barrier stood between him and the world outside, and when air and daylight were less important than shelter from the enemy. It had survived the fierce attack of armed peasants in the days of the revolution, and had not suffered much from the slow destroyer, Time. Its owners had always been men who clung to the traditions of the past, and who cared little for new ideas and new ways. When any part of the château needed repair, it was repaired on the old plan; and so, in the year 1895 it looked from outside the same as it had in the days of Henri Quatre. Even the old gardens were the same—stiff and stately, with old-fashioned flowers, and dark, high hedges; no gay, giddy new-fangled blossoms or imported plants and shrubs. The very servants looked as if they might have been there a hundred years or so. There was only one young thing about the château, and that was the young heir, Bertrand Philippe André de Lys, who would some day be Lord of Montarbre. The name suggested power and pride, and conjured up a picture of a dashing young noble, full of fire and spirit. But Bertrand de Lys was not at all like that picture. He was a frail little boy who could not so much as walk, having been an invalid since his fourth year.

At the time of this story he was fourteen, and seemed at once older and younger than his age: older, because his face was grave and weary; younger, because he was small and slight. He lived a very lonely life at the château, poor boy, for he had no one near his own age to talk to—no one at all but the servants and the old priest who came to teach him.

The Marquis, his father, was in Paris, and only came to Montarbre for a week's visit now and then. He sent Bertrand books and games, and saw that he had the best of attention, but as to staying in the dull old place with his son—well, really, no one could expect it of him, he thought. Bertrand's ill-health had been a bitter sorrow to him, and he shrank from being reminded that his son was an invalid for life. It was his own distress of which he chiefly thought; and that was much easier to bear in the city, where there were so many things to distract and amuse, than in the château beside the boy's couch.

Bertrand's sweet and beautiful mother had died when he was a baby, and he had never known her care, but his faithful nurse Nannette was with him, and her love was the warmest he had experienced.

He took it as a matter of course that his father should live at the family mansion in Paris, and that he had not much time to answer the formal, carefully-written letters which he wrote him every week, under the instructions of the curé. They were not very brilliant letters, for the boy had little to tell in his lonely and monotonous life.

The want he felt most keenly was that of young companions, and it was a grief to him that the village boys were not allowed to come inside the grounds. From his wheel-carriage on the broad terrace, he could see them, brown and sturdy, setting out on fishing trips, with their homemade rods of stripped branches and twine; or carrying baskets for nuts and berries in the autumn; he could see how gaily they romped along the white, dusty road, pushing one another down just for the fun of it, wrestling and playing at fighting, all good-humoredly, in the fullness of rude health. His sad blue eyes followed them as far as they could reach, and a sigh would come from his lips as they passed beyond his vision.

The little heir of Montarbre had been taught that it was the best thing in life to be born a noble, and not a poor peasant; but he would have given all the fine things he possessed to be a sunburned country lad, ragged and unlearned, if only like those he could run and jump and tussle, and play at fighting his mates. How gladly would he wear rough wooden sabots instead of the pretty buckled shoes that covered his idle feet! How happy it would be to come springing into the house after a five-mile tramp, hungry for bean-broth and coarse bread, instead of trying wearily to swallow the game and sauces of his clever cook!

He told these thoughts to the good old curé, and the curé sighed and stroked his thin little hand, and told him that it was not right to be discontented

"But how can I help it?" asked poor Bertrand. "I should be less unhappy if I might have the village boys come here to see me, for then at least I could make them tell me about what they do, and that would be amusing; but they are not allowed to come inside the grounds!"

"M. le Marquis desires that, you know, my son."

"And I want to know why?" demanded Bertrand rebelliously.

"Because the village boys are not suitable companions for the heir of Château Montarbre. They are rough, ignorant, and unpolished; they say rude words; they do not use correct grammar, and their ideas are not the ideas of a person in your class of life."

"Ah, bah!" Bertrand cried, throwing out his hands with a gesture of contempt, "I am tired of hearing what is proper for my class of life! Me,—I wish I were the child of a field-laborer, with rags to wear, and onions and black bread to eat! Then I could be happy! Then I need not be always told—'M. Bertrand—that is unsuitable to your rank!' or, 'M. Bertrand—this or that will harm you!' I am so tired—so tired!"

He finished his angry speech with a pitiful sob, and the curé, who had been about to reprove his pupil, took him in his arms and said gently,—

"A great many things are hard to bear now, but the time comes when we thank those who seem severe while we do not understand their motives. When you are Marquis de Montarbre— "

Bertrand interrupted him.

"M. le Curé, there is a strange lady walking along the road!"

The curé looked. A lady, a stranger, was going past the château. She was simply but tastefully dressed, and she carried in her hand a large bouquet of wild flowers. As the man and the boy on the terrace watched her with interest, for strangers were not common in the village, she turned and called to some one, and then a little girl appeared round a turn in the road, and ran towards her.

"What a pretty little girl!" cried Bertrand; "I wonder who they are, and how they came here!"

"They are Americans," answered the priest, who now remembered hearing that a small villa half a mile away had been rented for the season. "They are at the house in the woods over there; I was told that the mother paints pictures from nature. They look like people of good standing—of culture."

"How I wish they would come in here and talk to me!" sighed Bertrand; "That little girl looks as if she could say amusing things! What sort of people are Americans?"

The curé perceived that the boy was taking too much interest in the strangers; it might be well to discourage this.

"Americans are dangerous people," he said gravely. "They have odd fancies in their heads: they call all men equals; they let every one do what he or she likes; their young children talk of politics, and their girls and boys are allowed to study and to play together. It is a very strange country."

Bertrand's pale cheeks had grown red with excitement, and his eyes flashed.

"A glorious country!" he cried; "When I am a man, I will go and live there!"

The curé looked at him in dismay.

"I think we will take up the study of American history," he said. "It will show you the dangers of liberty."

"As you will," replied the boy, smiling. "But I warn you, M. le Curé, I am not likely to be turned against a country such as you have described. I love a country where one may do as one likes, and where all are equal. Vive l'Amerique!"

The curé went sadly away. Sometimes he was afraid Bertrand had too strong a will.

The study of American history was delayed by an unlooked-for event. The curé fell, the evening after his talk on America, broke his leg, and was unable to come to his pupil for some time.

Bertrand missed him much, and became restless with nothing to do.

He saw the strange lady and her child pass nearly every day, as he lay on the terrace. They used to glance in at him, and he liked their looks better and better. It was too tantalizing to see them so far off, and he suddenly made up his mind to a bold course of action.

"Gervase," he said to the man-servant who wheeled his carriage about the grounds, "this morning I wish to go out on the road."

Gervase looked at him as if he did not understand.

"On the road, Monsieur?"

"On the road—yes!"

"But, Monsieur—the directions of M. le Marquis—"

"Will you obey me or not, Gervase?"

The man had never seen that flash in his young master's eye before.

"But, certainly, Monsieur!"

"To the gates, then, and without delay!" For Bertrand wished to be in the way when the American ladies passed, and it was nearly their time for passing. Gervase rolled the wheel-carriage down the avenue, threw the gates open, and took Bertrand out on the road.

177

"Which way, Monsieur?"

"To the woods!"

They had not been out more than ten minutes when Bertrand saw a bit of color above the bushes on the edge of the road. His heart began to beat hard; it was the wide pink muslin hat of the little girl.

In another minute she came into full view, stepping lightly along in advance of her mother, to whom she turned to speak. Her hands were full of flowers.

Now she saw the carriage. She looked up at her mother and seemed to say something concerning its occupant. As they drew nearer she walked more slowly, giving long glances at Bertrand, and again dropping her eyes. He, on his part, never took his own from her. She was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. He felt as if he could not let her pass by, the day would be so heavy afterwards. But he could not speak or stop her. His strained face, so young and so suffering, drew a look of kind sympathy from the lady. She read in it an appeal.

"Yes, I would, Ellie," she said softly to her little daughter, as they came abreast of the carriage. But she did not stop. The girl did.

Before Bertrand knew what was happening, she had come up to him and was saying something in English. He had learned very little English, and, in the surprise of the moment, that little forsook him. He simply lay and gazed at her, feeling as if a fairy-tale had come true.

His silence troubled the little girl, who took it to mean denial.

She had asked him if he would like a few wild flowers, and he did not say yes—he just kept still and looked at her with his big, strangely sorrowful eyes. He must think her rude to speak to him when he did not know who she was. It was horrid of him not to answer! Her lips began to tremble; her cheeks turned red; she put her hands up to her face, and would have run away, if a sudden intelligence had not come to the boy.

He caught her two hands and pulled them down from her eyes.

"Look at me!" he commanded; and though he spoke in French she knew what he meant. She looked at him, and the smile on his face passed to her's. She held up the wild flowers with a questioning gesture; he took them with a gesture of thanks. They were friends!

Long after the pink hat had disappeared among the trees, Bertrand gazed down the empty road. He held the little bouquet tight, and now and then stroked one of the flowers gently.

"Will Monsieur go further?" asked Gervase at last. He had been waiting for orders, and was tired of standing in the sun.

Bertrand roused himself.

"No," he answered, "I will go home now."

The wheel-carriage was going slowly along the road when the ladies passed the château on the following day. Bertrand looked at the little girl, and she looked at him, both smiling shyly. Again, she whispered to her mother, as they drew near; and then they came up to the carriage together.

"May I introduce myself to you?" said the lady, speaking in French, and in a very sweet voice; "My name is Mrs. Vaughn, and this is my little daughter Ellen. We are staying for a time at the Villa Claire. My Ellie is lonely here because she knows no other young people. If it would not be troublesome to you, it would give her pleasure to see something of you."

Bertrand raised himself on his elbow, with an effort that brought the blood to his face, pulled the cap from his dark curls, and made her a graceful little bow.

"To see and talk with Mademoiselle—that will give me great pleasure," he answered.

"May I bring her to see you, then?"

Bertrand's eyes glowed at the very idea.

"If you would do me that kindness!" he said tremulously. This fairy tale was really coming true—more and more so!

"We will come at any time you choose," said the lady.

"To-morrow, then, at this time!"

Mrs. Vaughn smiled.

"We will come." She bent her head in farewell, and the little girl bent her's. But as the boy gazed after her, she turned and suddenly kissed her hand to him.

That night, Bertrand could not sleep for a long time after he had gone to bed. To understand why the making acquaintance with the little American girl was so exciting, one must remember the great loneliness of his invalid life, shut away from all other children and debarred from the amusements of his age. He had positively never seen a little girl to speak to before, and was in some doubt as to what he ought to say and do when she should come to see him next day. He had a general impression that little girls were extremely shy and easily frightened, and that you had to speak softly to them and let them have their own way. This last was not a hard prospect as regarded Ellie Vaughn, for her own way was likely to be a pretty and harmless way; but the curé had told him that in history the greatest troubles had been caused by Kings letting silly, selfish women do as they liked; so the female way must be a bad one sometimes. To be sure, the curé did not think much of women, and very likely did not think much of little girls because they would be women if they lived to grow up. He hoped Ellie would live to be a woman; she would be such a sweet, gentle, beautiful woman! Her way would be a way of mild and loving rule—(for Bertrand was thinking of her as a Queen) and all her subjects would be the better for obeying her. Then, he seemed to see her sitting on a carved throne, with her people about her, and giving commands; and he was there, not a sickly lad, but a strong knight, and he was going forth to fight for her—to make her enemies bow before her. In fact, poor, tired, worn-out Bertrand had dropped asleep!

When Mrs. Vaughn reached her little villa after the talk with the young heir of Montarbre, that morning, she called Ellie to bring her French reading-book.

"If you want to make friends with this boy, you must be able to say something to him," she said.

"But I don't believe I can learn enough French to talk to him in it to-morrow; do you, mother?" Ellie asked anxiously.

"Well, no, perhaps not, Ellie," her mother admitted, smiling, "but you can go over the little bit you know already, and learn a few phrases, and so feel rather more at home than if you knew nothing at all of his language. Your father and I wanted you to improve your French particularly on this trip, and we have not done much about it yet, have we?"

Ellie blushed; she was not fond of lessons, and she disliked languages especially.

"Don't you suppose he talks any English?" she asked.

"I don't know, dear. It seems to me an excellent idea for you to teach him English, and for him to teach you French!"

"That might be rather fun," said Ellie, with a brightening look.

So she bent bravely to her French Reader, and by dinner-time had learned a page of "polite phrases." Her mother was much pleased at seeing her work in earnest, and hoped that the acquaintance might do more than one thing for her daughter. Ellie was a lovable child, but a very dreamy one. Her father used to say that she walked in a dream, and indeed, the every-day affairs of life had not much interest for her.

She loved to read fairy tales, and poetry, and legends. She liked to "make believe" things, and fancy herself a princess, or a water-nymph, or somebody of that kind, and to tell herself long stories in which she did most remarkable things and had most wonderful adventures.

She was fond of music, and this was the one study at which she had wanted to work hard. In the big American city from which she came she had a number of young friends, and these all thought her a delightful companion because she could entertain them by the hour together with her tales. She wondered now whether the little invalid boy at the château would like to have her tell him stories? She knew he would! But just then she recollected that he could not understand her stories, and this was a sad reflection. She sighed, and took up her French Reader.

The next morning, long before the ladies could possibly arrive, all was in readiness at the château. Bertrand, in his best clothes, was in the hall to receive them, and when they had shaken hands, he asked if they would like to go over the house. The ladies were very willing, and the old Antoine, who acted as butler, proudly escorted them from room to room. Ellie was awe-struck at the long, shadowy apartments, the dark tapestries and carvings, the air of gloom and silence and desertion. Mrs. Vaughn for her part, felt the tears in her eyes as she thought of the feeble little heir to all this grandeur.

"Has your young master been ill long?" she asked Antoine.

"Since he was three years, Madame."

"And do the doctors give no hope of his recovering his health?"

"He will never be better, Madame."

Mrs. Vaughn sighed. She wished her husband were with her, for Dr. Vaughn was a skilful surgeon, and had helped some people as ill as Bertrand.

When Antoine had showed the ladies all that he judged best, they went back to the little invalid, who had been wheeled into his own special sitting-room. Mrs. Vaughn sat down near his chair and talked to him, but Ellie had taken a shy turn and would not say a word. Bertrand was evidently disappointed, and at last addressed her directly.

"I liked those flowers very much, Mademoiselle," he said.

Now was the time for one of the pretty phrases which Ellie had been learning. Alas! not one could she utter! She blushed, and looked down. Mrs. Vaughn rose suddenly.

"I am going out to see those handsome shrubs," she said; "No—don't come with me, Ellie: I want you to stay here."

Ellie looked beseechingly after her, but she went away, and left the two children together.

Bertrand understood that she did it on purpose, thinking that her little daughter would be more at her ease if thrown on her own resources; and he smiled. Then he held out his hand.

"Come here and tell me the names of these flowers in English," he said. "My English is so poor—I want to learn some more."

Ellie went to him, and began to talk in her own natural way, quite forgetting to be shy, and Bertrand lay back among his cushions, watching her happily and listening delightedly to her voice, whether he understood what she said or not. When Mrs. Vaughn came back after a time, she found them very well acquainted, and talking a droll mixture of their two languages, the mistakes they made leading to merry laughter.

Ellie was surprised to hear that it was time to go, and the boy's face darkened.

"We are coming again, if you would like to see us," said Mrs. Vaughn.

Bertrand's look left no doubt of his liking to see them, and he begged them to come every day. Mrs. Vaughn thought this would be too often; but very soon it became the rule.

"Bertrand will not be able to eat any dinner if I don't go to see him to-day, Mother;" Ellie would say. "He does n't feel hungry unless he has me to tell him a story before he has his food."

Mrs. Vaughn laughed at first at this fancy, but there was truth in it. The disappointment of waiting in vain for his little friend gave the boy a bad headache more than once, and his faithful old nurse, Nannette, came, the third time it happened, to beg that "Mademoiselle might at the least come and speak a few words each morning, when she went for her promenade, since M. Bertrand worried himself if he did not see her."

Mrs. Vaughn was alone, and made the woman sit down and tell her all about the boy. Nannette was very willing. At first, she had not wanted these strangers to come to the château, but now that she had studied them, and found how much better her darling's spirits were for having a companion near his own age, she was anxious to have him see as much of them as possible.

"And he has so few joys, my little master!" she said, wiping her eyes. "No one but me knows what he has suffered, the little angel! and always so patient—so good." 'I will try to be quite still, Nannette,' he has said with the tears running down his cheeks for pain; 'I am a De Lys, and the men of my house have always been brave.' But, the loneliness is worse than the pain."

"I suppose his father feels the child's illness very keenly?" asked Mrs. Vaughn.

"But terribly, Madame! Still, it is not the same with a man as with a woman; the woman stays close to the child that suffers, and suffers, too. A man—well, Madame knows that a man tries to forget! Still, M. le Marquis does everything for M. Bertrand—everything." She looked sharply at the lady to see if she had said too much. Mrs. Vaughn seemed not to notice the look.

"I suppose a great many doctors have seen the boy?" she asked.

Nannette raised her eyes to the ceiling expressively.

"But thousands of doctors!" she answered.

"And have none of them done him any good?"

Nannette began to shake her head in a mysterious way. At the same moment Ellie came into the room, and the nurse said she must be going.

Mrs. Vaughn was sorry the conversation had been interrupted, but she did not think best to talk of Bertrand's illness before her daughter, so she asked no more questions.

On the morning of the following day, Ellie sat beside Bertrand's wheel-chair on the terrace at the château. She had been telling him one of her wonderful stories, and he had praised it.

"You are very clever, Ellie," he said in English.

Ellie colored.

"Oh, no, Bertrand!" she protested, "I 'm not at all! I am sure you could tell me a great deal better story than that if you liked!"

Bertrand smiled his sweet, wistful smile. He looked curiously at her.

"You really want me to tell you a story?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, indeed I do! Please begin!"

"It will be a true story."

"A true story?" Ellie preferred fairy tales about dragons and dwarfs and enchanted princesses, and such things.

"Are n't there any adventures in it?" she asked anxiously.

Bertrand still looked at her with the expression that puzzled her.

"I don't know," he said slowly.

"Well, tell it, anyway," begged Ellie, coming nearer and resting her elbows on the arm of his chair and putting her face in her hands, as she was fond of doing when listening.

"Very well,—once upon a time there was a château on a hill, with big trees growing thick all about it———"

"Why, that is like this one!" Ellie interrupted.

Bertrand went on quietly. "And in it lived a powerful noble named Noel the Strong. He was fierce and pitiless, and the poor hated him. One day he caught a wretched peasant stealing a hare out of a trap in the forest. The man begged to be let off, and said he had a sick wife and a number of little ones who were starving: that that was why he had taken the hare. Noel cared nothing about the man's starving children. He ordered his huntsmen to beat the poor peasant so terribly that he never was able to walk again. And the legend is, that as Noel rode away, leaving the man bleeding on the ground, the man raised himself on his arm and solemnly cursed the wicked noble. 'As thou hast made me a cripple,' he said, (for he knew he should never be able to stand or walk again) 'so shall the son God will send thee be one, and thy son's son, and in all the days to come shall there be a cripple in thy house.' And it has been so," Bertrand said in a strange, low voice; "Ever since that day, there has been a cripple in our house." He stopped abruptly.

Ellie had grown quite pale.

"Oh, Bertrand!" she said. And then they sat still and gazed into each other's faces. Ellie had never been so much shocked in her life. She could hardly believe the story; and yet Bertrand's manner showed that he thoroughly believed it himself.

Then a bright idea came into the little girl's head. In the weird stories of spells and enchantments she knew, there was always a charm somewhere by which the spell could be broken—the enchanted prince set free. Her pretty face glowed with hope and enthusiasm, as she leaned toward the boy.

"Oh, but I am sure that that is not all! Tell me the rest—tell me how the curse can be taken away; it always ends well, you know, when you find the charm to undo the spell!"

Bertrand looked at her oddly.

"You certainly are very clever," he said slowly. "Yes, you are, Ellie! How did you know that there was any more of the story? The end of it has come true, I think!"

Ellie shook her head.

"The end is not until you get well!" she said firmly; "but why don't you tell me the charm?"

Bertrand looked away from her, out over the beautiful view.

"You guessed right," he said; "there was a charm. The curse would be lifted when a young maiden from a far country should take it away of her own free will. Perhaps you are the maiden, Ellie!"

He tried to laugh, being afraid he might cry. Ellie threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

"Oh, Bertrand, I—I—I 'd do anything to make you well!" she sobbed.

Bertrand was trembling with a new sensation. He kissed Ellie gently.

"It is good to have anyone care so much," he said, hoping she did not notice the sob in his voice.

Ellie sat up again, eager and unsatisfied.

"But you still don't tell me how the spell can be broken!" she cried.

She now believed the legend perfectly. "I want to begin to break it!"

Bertrand was older than most boys of his age, and he had a deeply thoughtful nature.

"I think you are breaking it now, Ellie," he said tenderly.

Ellie almost stamped her little foot.

"I don't know what you mean!" she said.

"Why, before you came, I was discontented and unhappy and cross. And now I am not discontented; I am very contented! Is n't that-the breaking of a spell?"

"No, it is n't!" she replied; "I want to know what has to be done to make you well, so that you can walk, and do everything!"

Bertrand looked gravely into her flushed face.

"I shall never be well," he said simply and bravely.

Ellie's eyes grew wide with dismay. The story was so real to her that she could not accept any but the proper ending.

"You shall be well!" she cried, and gave Bertrand a fervent embrace, and fled home to her mother.

Mrs. Vaughn was astonished to see her little daughter come flying into the room in tears. She drew her to her side, stroked her hair, and got her to tell the tale of what had so disturbed her.

"I am very sorry for you, dear," she said, "and I am more sorry for our dear Bertrand. I am afraid there is not much chance of his being able to walk any more, but, as you are so unhappy, I will tell you something that I was keeping for a surprise. Your father will be here next week!"

Ellie loved her father so much that she almost forgot about her friend for a moment. But it was only for a moment. Her mother went on,———

"And that is not all, Ellie. Your father is what is called a "specialist" for the sort of illness Bertrand has. I do not want you to say anything about it to anyone, but I think your father may be able to help this dear boy—if not to cure him. I do not know that he can, but I hope it. Dry up your tears, darling, and be brave, whatever happens."

Ellie could scarcely wait till Dr. Vaughn had changed his travelling clothes for another suit, and seated himself in the little sitting-room at the villa, before she told him about Bertrand.

"Oh, Father! you will cure him, won't you?" she pleaded, her arms about his neck.

The doctor kissed his daughter.

"My sweetest, no man can work cures! All we doctors can do is to use the knowledge God has given us as well as we know how. Sometimes the sick person gets well, and sometimes he does not; we do not pretend that all can get well, even with the wisest and best treatment. I want to see your little friend, but you must remember that his father has had the finest French doctors, and that he may refuse to consult me."

"As if any old French doctors knew as much as my father!" Ellie said indignantly.

The next day, Ellie took her father to call at the château. Bertrand looked paler than usual, and the surgeon took a careful survey of him without seeming to do so. He was much interested in the case, but when Ellie, on their leaving, said,—"There, Father, don't you think you can cure him?" he looked serious.

"I cannot say, dear; I wish the case were in my hands, but failing that, I can do nothing."

Two days after, the Marquis paid an unexpected visit to Montarbre.

Bertrand's letters of late had been all on one theme, and the Marquis judged it well to see who these strangers who had taken his son by storm might be, and what they wanted. M. de Lys was one of those men who seldom credit their fellow creatures with unselfish motives.

He listened with a smile to the boy's description of his new friends.

"Most charming!" he said. They were sitting on the terrace, and while they talked, Ellie came up the avenue. When she saw a gentleman she did not know, with Bertrand, she stopped in some embarrassment, and would have retreated but that the gentleman came forward and held out his hand, while the boy called eagerly,—

"Do not go! Do not go! This is my father who wishes much to see you!"

The Marquis made so low a bow that Ellie was astonished.

"Mademoiselle," he murmured in a low voice, "has done me the honor to befriend my lonely child, I am told. Mademoiselle must accept my profound acknowledgments."

Poor Ellie had a fear that he was making fun of her, and felt on the verge of tears. The little heir could not bear to see her look troubled.

"She does not understand what you mean, Papa!" he said to the Marquis softly; "you are distressing her. Come here, dear Ellie! I am so very glad to see you." He took her hands and kissed them.

Ellie sat down by the familiar wheel-carriage, and felt at home again.

In a few minutes the doctor joined them. He wished Ellie to go and walk, but had allowed her to come and speak to Bertrand first. The Marquis talked a little with him while the children conversed together.

The next day he called at the villa. The doctor returned the call at the château. He thought the Marquis seemed uneasy and abstracted. At last he rose to go, but M. de Lys laid a hand on his arm.

"Pardon me, Monsieur! I have something to say to you. I know who you are. I have heard of your skill. Will you take the case of my son and see what—if anything—can be done for him?"

Dr. Vaughn was surprised, not only by the suddenness of this proposal, but by the feeling the proud man showed in his pale, agitated face and choking voice. Before he could answer, the Marquis spoke again.

"I know that this request seems strange, since the acquaintance between us is so recent, and, perhaps, because I have been assured by some of the most renowned specialists that the case is incurable. But I am his father, and he is my only son! My only child! I cling to the least hope. You come from the new world where I hear there are new and wonderful discoveries; I entreat you to do what you can."

Dr. Vaughn was too much moved to reply for the moment, but he took the hand the Marquis held out and grasped it warmly.

And then he went to see his new patient.

It would take entirely too long to tell the story of the months that followed; of how Dr. Vaughn worked to help the little heir; and of how,—very slowly, almost imperceptibly at first,—Bertrand began to recover.

There were times of discouragement when the great surgeon went to and from the château with a grave face, and when the Marquis looked stern and bitter; times when it seemed as if no skill could rout the disease which held the boy in its grasp. At these times, Ellie would neither smile nor speak, but shut herself up in her room and cried.

But Ellie never really lost hope. For she felt sure the story of wicked Noel was true, and that the charm must be real if the spell were.

And she had no doubt that she was the maiden from over the seas who was to work the charm. It made no difference that Dr. Vaughn's treatment was the means; it was a charm—her charm just the same. Bertrand had assured her that this was so; and if he did not know, who did?

She made up a little prayer and said it after her other prayers every night and morning,———

"I pray that the spell be broken, and my dear Bertrand may get well."

And by and by it seemed that Ellie's innocent prayer was answered; for Bertrand got well!

The Vaughn family went back to America, and Ellie and her friend had to say good-by, but they bore it pretty bravely, for Bertrand—as he stood straight and strong, though slender, by her side on the ship's deck, said to her,———

"It will be only six months until I see you again, for my father has promised to bring me to America, you know."

Ellie nodded wisely. "I know."

And then Bertrand drew a long breath.

"Oh, Ellie—if the spell had not been broken!"

"It had to be; that is always the end of the story!"

The boy looked at her with the sweetest smile she had ever seen on his face.

"We have not reached the end of the story yet!" he said.