little heir; and of how,—very slowly, almost imperceptibly at first,—Bertrand began to recover.
There were times of discouragement when the great surgeon went to and from the château with a grave face, and when the Marquis looked stern and bitter; times when it seemed as if no skill could rout the disease which held the boy in its grasp. At these times, Ellie would neither smile nor speak, but shut herself up in her room and cried.
But Ellie never really lost hope. For she felt sure the story of wicked Noel was true, and that the charm must be real if the spell were.
And she had no doubt that she was the maiden from over the seas who was to work the charm. It made no difference that Dr. Vaughn's treatment was the means; it was a charm—her charm just the same. Bertrand had assured her that this was so; and if he did not know, who did?
