an took it, and pretended to read it again.

'Ah! M. Bernier returns. Delightful!' he exclaimed.

'How, delightful?' asked Hortense; 'we mustn't jest at so serious a
crisis, my friend.'

'True,' said the other, 'it will be a solemn meeting. Two years of
absence is a great deal.'

'O Heaven! I shall never dare to face him,' cried Hortense, bursting
into tears.

Covering her face with one hand, she put out the other toward that of
her friend. But he was plunged in so deep a reverie, that he did not
perceive the movement. Suddenly he came to, aroused by her sobs.

'Come, come,' said he, in the tone of one who wishes to coax another
into mistrust of a danger before which he does not himself feel so
secure but that the sight of a companion's indifference will give him
relief. 'What if he does come? He need learn nothing. He will stay but a
short time, and sail away again as unsuspecting as he came.'

'Learn nothing! You surprise me. Every tongue that greets him, if only
to say _bon jour_, will wag to the tune of a certain person's
misconduct.'

'Bah! People don't think about us quite as much as you fancy. You and I,
_n'est-ce-pas_? we have little time to concern ourselves about our
neighbors' failings. Very well, other people are in the same box, better
or worse. When a ship goes to pieces on those rocks out at sea, the poor
devils who are pushing their way to land on a floating spar, don't
bestow many glances on those who are battling with the waves beside
them. Their eyes are fastened to the shore, and all their care is for
their own safety. In life we are all afloat on a tumultuous sea; we are
all struggling toward some _terra firma_ of wealth or love or leisure.
The roaring of the waves we kick up about us and the spray we dash into
our eyes deafen and blind us to the sayings and doings of our fellows.
Provided we climb high and dry, what do we care for them?'

'Ay, but if we don't? When we've lost hope ourselves, we want to make
others sink. We hang weights about their necks, and dive down into the
dirtiest pools for stones to cast at them. My friend, you don't feel the
shots which are not aimed at you. It isn't of you the town talks, but of
me: a poor woman throws herself off the pier yonder, and drowns before a
kind hand has time to restrain her, and her corpse floats over the water
for all the world to look at. When her husband comes up to see what the
crowd means, is there any lack of kind friends to give