much wider and more varied in that old charmed, sunny, fairy life; the knot of their difficulties was so readily cut, by a simple reference to some Fortunatus’ purse, or the arrival in the very nick of time of some friendly fairy.  Madelon did not draw the parallel quite far enough, or it might have occurred to her that benevolence did not become wholly extinct with the disappearance of fairies, and that friendly interference is not quite unknown even in these more prosaic days.  The Fortunatus’ purse, it is true, might awake a sense of comparison, but who could have looked at Jeanne-Marie’s homely features, and have dreamed of her in connexion with a fairy?  In truth, it requires a larger and deeper experience than any that Madelon could have acquired, or reasoned out, to recognise how much of the charm of these tales of our childhood can be traced to the eternal truths that lie hidden in them, or to perceive that the shining fairy concealed beneath the frequent guise of some crabbed old woman, is no mere freak of fancy, but the symbol of a reality, less exceptional perhaps amongst us poor mortals, than amongst the fairies themselves, who, finding their presence no longer needed, vanished from our earth so many centuries ago.

It was the next morning, that, after the doctor’s visit was over, Jeanne-Marie returned to the bedroom, with the air of having tidings to impart.

“You will be satisfied now, I hope,” she said, as she met the gaze of the restless brown eyes.  “M. le Docteur says you may get up for an hour this afternoon.”

“Does he?” cried Madelon, eagerly; “then he thinks I am better—­that I shall soon be well.”

“Of course you are better,” said Jeanne-Marie—­“you are getting stronger every day; you will soon be quite well again.”

“And how soon shall I be able to go out?—­to go on a journey, for instance?”

“You are, then, very anxious to get away?” asked Jeanne-Marie.

“But yes,” said Madelon naively, “I must go as soon as possible.”

“Ah, well,” said the woman, stifling a sigh, “that is only natural; but there is no hurry, you will not be able to go yet.”

“No,” said Madelon, sadly, “I shall not be able to go yet.”

She did not remark Jeanne-Marie’s sad voice, nor the unwonted tears that filled her eyes; the woman felt half heart-broken at what she imagined to be her charge’s indifference.  Madelon was not indifferent or ungrateful, but her mind was filled just then with her one idea, and she had no room for any other; it wrought in her what seemed a supreme selfishness, and yet she had no thought of self in the matter.

She lay quite still for a few minutes, her pale little face glowing with her renewed hopes.  Then she said,—­

“Jeanne-Marie, would you mind putting out my things where I can see them?—­my frock and all.  Then I shall believe I am to get up.”