rst of the
delicious merriment which brightened our games in childhood..."

When the dowager had finished reading the letter, and after such a
beginning the rest must have been sad indeed, she slowly laid her
spectacles on the table, put the letter down beside them, and looked
fixedly at her niece. Age had not dimmed the fire in those green eyes as
yet.

"My little girl," she said, "a married woman cannot write such a letter
as this to a young unmarried woman; it is scarcely proper--"

"So I was thinking," Julie broke in upon her aunt. "I felt ashamed of
myself while you were reading it."

"If a dish at table is not to our taste, there is no occasion to disgust
others with it, child," the old lady continued benignly, "especially
when marriage has seemed to us all, from Eve downwards, so excellent an
institution... You have no mother?"

The Countess trembled, then she raised her face meekly, and said:

"I have missed my mother many times already during the past year; but I
have myself to blame, I would not listen to my father. He was opposed to
my marriage; he disapproved of Victor as a son-in-law."

She looked at her aunt. The old face was lighted up with a kindly look,
and a thrill of joy dried Julie's tears. She held out her young,
soft hand to the old Marquise, who seemed to ask for it, and the
understanding between the two women was completed by the close grasp of
their fingers.

"Poor orphan child!"

The words came like a final flash of enlightenment to Julie. It seemed
to her that she heard her father's prophetic voice again.

"Your hands are burning! Are they always like this?" asked the Marquise.

"The fever only left me seven or eight days ago."

"You had a fever upon you, and said nothing about it to me!"

"I have had it for a year," said Julie, with a kind of timid anxiety.

"My good little angel, then your married life hitherto has been one long
time of suffering?"

Julie did not venture to reply, but an affirmative sign revealed the
whole truth.

"Then you are unhappy?"

"On! no, no, aunt. Victor loves me, he almost idolizes me, and I adore
him, he is so kind."

"Yes, you love him; but you avoid him, do you not?"

"Yes... sometimes... He seeks me too often."

"And often when you are alone you are troubled with the fear that he may
suddenly break in on your solitude?"

"Alas! yes, aunt. But, indeed, I love him, I do assure you."

"Do you not, in your own thoughts, blame yourself