y child!" That was all, but it seemed torn from
her heart, that bled after it.

"He was not long in seeking me out, mamma, dear. With grace and
consideration he paid me his court, and I was happy till I saw that you
and papa frowned upon an alliance that to me seemed laden with promise.
I could not understand it, nor could I understand our hurried departure
from France, nor our secret journey here. All has been a mystery to me;
but your will is my will, and I dare not complain."

"Pure heart!" broke from the mother's lips. "Would to God--"

"What, dear mamma?"

"That you had been moved by a lesser man than the Marquis de la
Roche-Guyon."

"A lesser man?"

"With Armand Thierry, since he is the one you will have to marry."

"I shall not marry him."

"Shall not?"

"If I cannot give my hand where my heart is, I remain unmarried. I
dishonor no man with unmeaning marriage vows."

"Honora!"

"I may never be happy, but I will never be base. You yourself cannot
wish me to be that. You, who married for love, must understand that a
woman loses her title to respect when she utters vows to one man while
her heart is with another."

"But--"

"You did marry for love, didn't you, sweet mamma? I like to think so. I
like to think that papa never cared for any other woman in all the world
but you, and that from the moment you first saw him, you knew him to be
the one man capable of rousing every noble instinct within you. It is so
sweet to enshrine you in such a pure romance, mamma. Though you have
been married sixteen years--ah, how old I am!--I see you sit and look at
papa sometimes, for a long, long time without speaking, and though you
do not smile, I think, 'She is dreaming of the days when life was pure
joy, because it was pure love,' and I long to ask you to tell me about
those days, because I am sure, if you did, you would tell me the
sweetest story of mutual love and devotion. Isn't it so, mamma mine?"

Would that mother answer? Could she? I seemed to behold her figure
pausing petrified in the darkness, drawing deep breaths, and scarcely
knowing whether to curse or pray. I listened and listened, but it was
long before the answer came. Then it was short and hurried, like the
pants of one dying.

"Honora, you hurt me." Another silence. "You make my task too hard. If I
know what love is--" She found it hard to go on; but she did--"all the
more anguish it must cost me to deny you what is so deeply desired. I--I
w