rly absurd way. If such a thing were already settled, or even
under serious consideration, would you not have been formally told of it
before now? Would your father have kept silence for two days, and would
you not have heard of another visit from General Ratoneau? You would not
be surprised, I suppose, to hear that he admires you--and by the bye, I
think your taste is bad if you do not return his admiration--but that is
absolutely all I have to tell you."

"Is it?" the girl sighed. "Ah, mamma, how you terrified me!"

Madame de Sainfoy shrugged her shoulders.

"I wonder," she said, "how I have deserved such a daughter as you! No
courage, no ambition for your family, no feeling of duty to them.
Nothing but--I am ashamed to say it, Helene, and you can deny it if it
is not true--some silly sentimental fancy which carries your eyes and
thoughts to that old farm over there. Ah, I see I am right. When did
this preposterous nonsense begin? Why, the question is not worth asking,
for you have hardly even spoken to that cousin of yours, and I will do
him the justice to say that he, on his side, has no such ridiculous
idea. He does not sit staring at Lancilly as you do at La Mariniere!
Yes, Helene, I am ashamed of you."

Helene stood crimson and like a culprit before her mother. She hardly
understood her words; she only knew that her mother had read her heart,
had known how to follow her thoughts as they escaped from this stony
prison away to sunshine and free air and waving trees and a happy,
homely life; away to Angelot. What was there to be ashamed of, after
all? She expected no one to be on her side; she dreaded their anger and
realised keenly what it might be; but as for shame!

Even as Madame de Sainfoy spoke, the thought of her young lover seemed
to surround Helene with an atmosphere of joyful sweetness. Yes, he was
wonderful, her Angelot. Would he ever be afraid or ashamed to confess
his love for her? Why could she not find courage then to tell of hers
for him?

With a new and astonishing courage Helene lifted her long lashes and
looked up into her mother's face. It was a timid glance at the best; the
furtive shadow lingered still in her eyes, result of a life of cold
repression.

"Why should I deny it, mamma?" she said. Her voice was distinct, though
it trembled. "It is true, and I am not ashamed of it. Angelot has been
kinder to me than any one in the world. Yes--I love him."

"Ah!" Madame de Sainfoy drew a long