The weeks and the months which slipped by were ever instinct with the same delightful monotony, and Helene forgot to count the days.  She never left the house; at Jeanne’s side she forgot the whole world.  No news from without reached her ears.  Her retreat, though it looked down on Paris, which with its smoke and noise stretched across the horizon, was as secret and secluded as any cave of holy hermit amongst the hills.  Her child was saved, and the knowledge of it satisfied all her desires.  She spent her days in watching over her return to health, rejoicing in a shade of bright color returning to her cheeks, in a lively look, or in a gesture of gladness.  Every hour made her daughter more like what she had been of old, with lovely eyes and wavy hair.  The slower Jeanne’s recovery, the greater joy was yielded to Helene, who recalled the olden days when she had suckled her, and, as she gazed on her gathering strength, felt even a keener emotion than when in the past she had measured her two little feet in her hand to see if she would soon be able to walk.

At the same time some anxiety remained to Helene.  On several occasions she had seen a shadow come over Jeanne’s face—­a shadow of sudden distrust and sourness.  Why was her laughter thus abruptly turned to sulkiness?  Was she suffering? was she hiding some quickening of the old pain?

“Tell me, darling, what is the matter?  You were laughing just a moment ago, and now you are nearly crying!  Speak to me:  do you feel a pain anywhere?”

But Jeanne abruptly turned away her head and buried her face in the pillow.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” she answered curtly.  “I want to be left alone.”

And she would lie brooding the whole afternoon, with her eyes fixed on the wall, showing no sign of affectionate repentance, but plunged in a sadness which baffled her forlorn mother.  The doctor knew not what to say; these fits of gloom would always break out when he was there, and he attributed them to the sufferer’s nervousness.  He impressed on Helene the necessity of crossing her in nothing.

One afternoon Jeanne had fallen asleep.  Henri, who was pleased with her progress, had lingered in the room, and was carrying on a whispered conversation with Helene, who was once more busy with her everlasting needlework at her seat beside the window.  Since the terrible night when she had confessed she loved him both had lived on peacefully in the consciousness of their mutual passions, careless of the morrow, and without a thought of the world.  Around Jeanne’s bed, in this room that still reverberated with her agony, there was an atmosphere of purity which shielded them from any outburst.  The child’s innocent breath fell on them with a quieting influence.  But as the little invalid slowly grew well again, their love in very sympathy took new strength, and they would sit side by side with beating hearts, speaking little, and then only in whispers, lest the little one might be awakened.  Their words were without significance, but struck re-echoing chords within the breast of each.  That afternoon their love revealed itself in a thousand ways.