She was so young, so strong; but the shock of her father's death must have been preying on her mind.

Madame's sympathy was inexpressible.
Harriet lay ill for many days--delirious often, murmuring things pitiably small, calling on her father, on her lover--sometimes on her horses and dogs.

The physician was skillful, and life won the battle.
But it was a weary time before they let her descend to the parlor to see that impatient lover of hers.
It was very near Christmas, and there was snow on the ground, when she came slowly down one evening to see him.

He sat alone in the prime salon, where the porcelain stove stood, with its handful of fire, looking gloomily out at the feathery flakes whirling through the leaden twilight.

He turned round as she glided in, so unlike herself, so like a spirit, that his heart stood still.
"My love! my love!" It was all he could say.