grieved.

"I have no friends," she said; "not one real friend in the world."

An almost irresistible inclination assailed me to fall on my knees
beside her, as I had seen Tardif do, and take a solemn oath to be her
faithful servant and friend as long as my life should last. This, of
course, I did not do; but the sound of the words so plaintively spoken,
and the sight of her quivering face, rendered her a hundredfold more
interesting to me.

"Mam'zelle," I said, taking her hand in mine, "if ever you should need a
friend, you may count upon Martin Dobrée as one as true as any you could
wish to have. Tardif is another. Never say again you have no friends."

"Thank you," she answered, simply. "I will count you and Tardif as my
friends. But I have no others, so you need not write to anybody."

"But what if you had died?" I persisted.

"You would have buried me quietly up there," she answered, "in the
pleasant graveyard, where the birds sing all day long, and I should have
been forgotten soon. Am I likely to die, Dr. Martin?"

"Certainly not," I replied, hastily; "nothing of the kind. You are going
to get well and strong again. But I must bid you good-by, now, since you
have no friends to write to. Can I do any thing for you in Guernsey? I
can send you any thing you fancy."

"I do not want any thing," she said.