The ankle was duly bathed and bandaged, then old Jacques and the Doctor went away, and she came over and looked laughingly down at the invalid, a world of coquettish daring in her dancing eyes.
"Well, M.Reinecourt, when does M.le Medecin say you are going to die ?" "When you think of leaving me, Mademoiselle." "Then summon your friends at once, for I not only think of it, but am about to do it." "Oh, not so soon." "It is half-past two, Monsieur," pulling out her watch; "they will think I am lost at home.

I must go!" "Well, shake hands before you go." "It seems to me you are very fond of shaking hands, Mr.Reinecourt," said Rose, giving him hers willingly enough, though.
"And you really must leave me ?" "I really must." "But you will come to-morrow ?" still holding her hand.
"Perhaps so--if I have nothing better to do." "You cannot do anything better than visit the sick, and oh, yes! do me another favour.

Fetch me some books to read--to pass the dismal hours of your absence." "Very well; now let me go." He released her plump little hand, and Rose drew on her gloves.
"Adieu, Mr.Reinecourt," moving to the door.
"_Au revoir_, Miss Danton, until to-morrow morning." Rose rode home in delight.

In one instant the world had changed.

St.
Croix had become a paradise, and the keen air sweet as "Ceylon's spicy breezes." As Alice Carey says, "What to her was our world with its storms and rough weather," with that pallid face, those eyes of darkest splendour, that magnetic voice, haunting her all the way.