“So good, doctor, so very good,” was the constant report of Madame Julien, or Madelon, as the old bonne was more familiarly called.
“So good is she; so very good? Well, then, as she has no other name, let us call her good—or Alma, which is the same thing,” said the doctor, one morning.
And thus the infant, to whom her own mother strangely denied the rights of baptism, received the well-omened name of Alma.
The infancy of the little heiress passed in the nursery until she had attained the age of seven years, when an accomplished governess was engaged to superintend her education, and she was removed to the school-room.
But this migration brought Alma no nearer to her mother, who continued to shun her presence.
Indeed, the greatest interest ever shown by Mrs. Elverton in her daughter, was upon the occasion of the latter being attacked with scarlet-fever, when the anxiety of the lady became intense; and such anxiety as it was! an anxiety that made everyone shudder! anxiety, in short—not that the child should live, but that she should die!
It curdled the blood of the boldest to see, that while the life of the little girl was in imminent peril, the face of the lady was lighted up with a wild, maniac hope. But one morning Dr. Watkins, who had been very devoted in his attentions to his little patient, after paying his usual visit to the bedside of Alma, entered the presence of Mrs. Elverton, and with his countenance radiant with satisfaction, said:
“I am happy to announce to you, madam, that our little Alma is out of danger. She will get well.”
To the consternation of the good doctor, the lady dropped her clasped hands upon her lap, and while the old expression of incurable sorrow came back to her face, replied, in a voice of deep despair:
“I had hoped it might have been otherwise, but Heaven’s holy will be done!”