e
hour when he might have cast her off with some show of justice, and
sent her forth upon the wide world to die.

She had learned to love him, not with the heart-stirring love of youth
for youth, but with the deep, holy affection of a prodigal child. Not
all the temptations of the gay world could ever make her swerve from
her allegiance to him. Like a good and pious daughter did she cling to
him, providing for his comfort, and forseeing his every want.

One day he called her to him as she returned from her visit of charity
to the surrounding peasantry. She had wept over their troubles and
relieved them, and rejoiced with the happy. Her heart was
over-flowing, and passing the little church, she entered, and offered
up a prayer of thankfulness for her own blessings, and those she was
able to confer on others.

Her husband watched her graceful form as she came at his call, and
smilingly placed a letter in her hand. It was from her mother, and
part of it ran thus:

"I am now very old, monsieur, and very infirm. I
have often thought, in my lonely hours, of the
unhappiness of my child on her marriage with you,
and have doubted the wisdom of that authority which
I exercised so severely over her. The vision of
that pale, agonized countenance, comes upon me like
a reproach; and although she has never hinted in
one of her letters of unkindness from you, I have
often thought that there was a mournful spirit
pervading them. Pray God she may not be unhappy
through my fault! I rely upon you, monsieur; be
kind to my poor Pauline.
MARIE THERESE CLEMENCE DUMESNIL.
(_Nee de Villeneuve_.)"

Pauline's tears fell fast over this letter; and as she finished
reading it, she cast herself upon her husband's bosom.

"She does not deserve a reply, does she, Pauline?" asked he, with a
smile, and pressing her closer to him. "Think you there would be no
more marriages _de convenance_ if we were to give the benefit of our
experience to the world? Would your mother even be sensible of her
error, could she know how your suffering has ended--could she see how
happy you make an old man."

"Let her think that we have been always so," cried the noble Pauline.
"Why disturb her last years with a narrative of what may embitter
them? Shall it not be so, my dear, kind husband?"