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“The fact is,” said Mrs. Trent, as the winter advanced, “I am anxious about Bertha. She does not look strong. I don’t know why I have not seen it before, but all at once I found out yesterday that she is really thin. She was always slight and even a little fragile, but now she is actually thin. One can see the little bones in her wrists and fingers. Her rings and her bracelets slip about quite loosely.”

“And talking of being thin, mother,” cried Jenny, who was a frank, bright sixteen-year-old, “look at cousin Ralph himself. He has little hollows in his cheeks, and his eyes are as much too big as Bertha’s. Is the sword wearing out the scabbard, Ralph? That is what they always say about geniuses, you know.”

“Ralph has not looked well for some time,” said Mrs. Trent. “As for Bertha, I think I shall scold her a little, and M. Villefort too. She has been living too exciting a life. She is out continually. She must stay at home more and rest. It is rest she needs.”

“If you tell Arthur that Bertha looks ill “–began Jenny.

Edmondstone turned toward her sharply. “Arthur!” he repeated. “Who is Arthur?”

Mrs. Trent answered with a comfortable laugh.

“It is M. Villefort’s name,” she said, “though none of us call him Arthur but Jenny. Jenny and he are great friends.”

“I like him better than any one else,” said Jenny stoutly. “And I wish to set a good example to Bertha, who never calls him anything but M. Villefort, which is absurd. Just as if they had been introduced to each other about a week ago.”

“I always hear him address her as Madame Villefort,” reflected Edmondstone, somewhat gloomily.

“Oh yes!” answered Jenny, “that is his French way of studying her fancies. He would consider it taking an unpardonable liberty to call her ‘Bertha,’ since she only favors him with ‘M. Villefort.’ I said to him only the other day, ‘Arthur, you are the oddest couple! You’re so grand and well-behaved, I cannot imagine you scolding Bertha a little, and I have never seen you kiss her since you were married.’ I was half frightened after I had said it. He started as if he had been shot, and turned as pale as death. I really felt as if I had done something frightfully improper.”

“The French are so different from the Americans,” said Mrs. Trent, “particularly those of M. Villefort’s class. They are beautifully punctilious, but I don’t call it quite comfortable, you know.”

Her mother was not the only person who noticed a change in Bertha Villefort. Before long it was a change so marked that all who saw her observed it. She had become painfully frail and slight. Her face looked too finely cut, her eyes had shadowy hollows under them, and were always bright with a feverish excitement.

“What is the matter with your wife?” demanded Madame de Castro of M. Villefort. Since their first meeting she had never loosened her hold upon the husband and wife, and had particularly cultivated Bertha.

There was no change in the expression of M. Villefort, but he was strangely pallid as he made his reply.

“It is impossible for me to explain, Madame.”

“She is absolutely attenuated,” cried Madame” “She is like a spirit. Take her to the country–to Normandy–to the sea–somewhere! She will die if there is not a change. At twenty, one should be as plump as a young capon.”

A few days after this, Jenny Trent ran in upon Bertha as she lay upon a lounge, holding an open book, but with closed eyes. She had come to spend the morning, she announced. She wanted to talk–about people, about her dress, about her first ball which was to come off shortly.

“And Arthur says”–she began.

Bertha turned her head almost as Edmondstone had done.

“Arthur!” she repeated. For the second time Jenny felt a little embarrassed.

“I mean M. Villefort,” she said, hesitantly.