"She is a trifle ill, but that's all."
"Poor Bertha!"
"She did too much. I tell you there's many a man would have died of the strain if he had done what she did."
"Good God!" cried Mary; "both ill, and both without care!"
"Oh, as for that, no; they are caring for one another. You ought to see how your sister, ill as she is, cossets the young baron. Some men have the luck of it, that's a fact; Monsieur Michel is just as much petted by his lady dove as he was by his mother. He'll have to love her well, if he doesn't want to be ungrateful."
Mary's agitation increased at these words,--a fact which did not escape the rider's notice, and he smiled.
"Shall I tell you something that I think I have discovered?" he said.
"What is it?"
"Why, that Monsieur le baron, in the matter of color, prefers fair hair to black."
"What do you mean?" asked Mary, quivering.