“Marat and Robespierre!” she cried.  “Both of the creatures have a devil.  I wish them to go to the guillotine together, and I would bury them together with their faces downwards.  Let them pass out of your memory.  Poor Jacobus was in a worse case than Arenta.  Till I be key-cold dead, I shall never forget my first sight of him in that dreadful place—­” and then she described again her overwhelming emotions when she perceived he was alike apathetic to his pauper condition, and to her love and presence.  There never came a moment during the whole visit when it was possible to speak of Hyde.  Madame seemed to have quite forgotten her liking for the handsome youth; it had been swallowed up in her adoring affection for her restored husband.

Cornelia would not force the memory upon her.  Some day she might remember; but for a little while madame had more than enough of fresh material for her conversation.  Every one who had known Captain Jacobus or herself, called with congratulations for their happy return; and when Cornelia made a nearly daily visit with her father, madame had these calls to talk over with her.

One morning, however, the long-looked-for topic was introduced.  “I had a visit from Madame Van Heemskirk yesterday afternoon,” she said; “and the dear old Senator came with her to see Captain Jacobus.  While they talked, madame told me that you had refused that handsome young fellow, her grandson.  What could you mean by such a stupidity, Miss Moran?”

Her voice had just that tone of indifference, mingled with sarcastic disapproval, that hurt and offended Cornelia.  She felt that it was not worth while to explain herself, for madame had evidently accepted the offended grandmother’s opinion; and the memory of the young Lord was lively enough to make her sympathize with his supposed wrong.

“I never considered you to be a flirt,” she continued, “and I am astonished.  If, now, it had been Arenta, I could have understood it.  I told Madame Van Heemskirk that I had not the least doubt Doctor Moran dictated the refusal.”

“Oh, indeed,” answered Cornelia, with a good deal of spirit and some anger, “you shall not blame my father.  He knew nothing whatever of Lord Hyde’s offer, until I had been subjected to such insult and wrong as drove me to the grave’s mouth.  Only the mercy of God, and my father’s skill, brought me back to life.”

“Yes, I think your father to be wonderfully skilful.  He has done Jacobus a great deal of good, and he now gives him hope of a perfect recovery.  Doctor Moran is a fine physician; Jacobus says so.”

Cornelia remained silent.  If madame did not feel interest sufficient in her affairs to ask for the particulars of one so nearly fatal to her, she determined not to force the subject on her.  Then Jacobus rang his bell, and madame flew to his room to see whether his want had received proper attention.  Cornelia sat still a few moments, her heart swelling, her eyes filling with the sense of that injustice, harder to bear than any other form of wrong.  She was going away, when madame returned to her, and something in her eyes went to the heart of the older woman.  She turned her back, with a kind but peremptory word, and taking her hand, said—­