“I assure you she is much better,” said the doctor.  “In a fortnight she will be able to go down to the garden.”

Helene went on stitching quickly.

“Yesterday she was again very sad,” she murmured, “but this morning she was laughing and happy.  She has given me her promise to be good.”

A long silence followed.  The child was still plunged in sleep, and their souls were enveloped in a profound peace.  When she slumbered thus, their relief was intense; they seemed to share each other’s hearts the more.

“Have you not seen the garden yet?” asked Henri.  “Just now it’s full of flowers.”

“The asters are out, aren’t they?” she questioned.

“Yes; the flower-bed looks magnificent.  The clematises have wound their way up into the elms.  It is quite a nest of foliage.”

There was another silence.  Helene ceased sewing, and gave him a smile.  To their fancy it seemed as though they were strolling together along high-banked paths, dim with shadows, amidst which fell a shower of roses.  As he hung over her he drank in the faint perfume of vervain that arose from her dressing-gown.  However, all at once a rustling of the sheets disturbed them.

“She is wakening!” exclaimed Helene, as she started up.

Henri drew himself away, and simultaneously threw a glance towards the bed.  Jeanne had but a moment before gripped the pillow with her arms, and, with her chin buried in it, had turned her face towards them.  But her eyelids were still shut, and judging by her slow and regular breathing, she had again fallen asleep.

“Are you always sewing like this?” asked Henri, as he came nearer to Helene.

“I cannot remain with idle hands,” she answered.  “It is mechanical enough, but it regulates my thoughts.  For hours I can think of the same thing without wearying.”

He said no more, but his eye dwelt on the needle as the stitching went on almost in a melodious cadence; and it seemed to him as if the thread were carrying off and binding something of their lives together.  For hours she could have sewn on, and for hours he could have sat there, listening to the music of the needle, in which, like a lulling refrain, re-echoed one word that never wearied them.  It was their wish to live their days like this in that quiet nook, to sit side by side while the child was asleep, never stirring from their places lest they might awaken her.  How sweet was that quiescent silence, in which they could listen to the pulsing of hearts, and bask in the delight of a dream of everlasting love!

“How good you are!” were the words which came several times from his lips, the joy her presence gave him only finding expression in that one phrase.

Again she raised her head, never for a moment deeming it strange that she should be so passionately worshipped.  Henri’s face was near her own, and for a second they gazed at one another.