th.

Violently agitated, distracted by a thousand conflicting emotions,
daring neither to refuse nor to promise, fearing the consequences of a
decision thus forced from her, the unhappy girl begged her mother for a
few hours to reflect.

Mme. de la Verberie dared not refuse this request, and acquiesced.

"I will leave you, my daughter," she said, "and I trust your own heart
will tell you how to decide between a useless confession and your
mother's salvation."

With these words she left the room indignant but hopeful.

And she had grounds for hope. Placed between two obligations equally
sacred, equally binding, but diametrically opposite, Valentine's
troubled mind could no longer clearly discern the path of duty. Could
she reduce her mother to want and misery? Could she basely deceive the
confidence and love of an honorable man? However she decided, her future
life would be one of suffering and remorse.

Alas! why had she not a wise and kind adviser to point out the right
course to pursue, and assist her in struggling against evil influences?
Why had she not that gentle, discreet friend who had inspired her with
hope and courage in her first dark sorrow--Dr. Raget?

Formerly the memory of Gaston had been her guiding star: now this
far-off memory was nothing but a faint mist--a sort of vanishing dream.

In romance we meet with heroines of lifelong constancy: real life
produces no such miracles.

For a long time Valentine's mind had been filled with the image of
Gaston. As the hero of her dreams she dwelt fondly on his memory; but
the shadows of time had gradually dimmed the brilliancy of her idol, and
now only preserved a cold relic, over which she sometimes wept.

When she arose the next morning, pale and weak from a sleepless, tearful
night, she had almost resolved to confess everything to her suitor.

But when evening came, and she went down to see Andre Fauvel, the
presence of her mother's threatening, supplicating eye destroyed her
courage.

She said to herself, "I will tell him to-morrow." Then she said, "I will
wait another day; one more day can make no difference."

The countess saw all these struggles, but was not made uneasy by them.

She knew by experience that, when a painful duty is put off, it is never
performed.

There was some excuse for Valentine in the horror of her situation.
Perhaps, unknown to herself, she felt a faint hope arise within her. Any
marriage, even an unhappy one, offered