ted. Your visit, the one link
that connects him with his old life and happiness, is impossible. Each
year you have taken him reports of me and how I grew. I'm going to
show him whether you represented me as I am or as your partial eyes
behold me. More than that, I must go. I must see him. I must put my
arms about his neck and tell him that I love him, as my mother loved
him, with all his child's affection added. I must. It is my right."

"But--how. You've never been beyond the forest. You are so young and
ignorant of--everything."

"Maybe I shall do all the better for that reason. 'Know nothing, fear
nothing,' and I certainly am not afraid. We are looking for Pierre to
come home, any day. He should have been here long ago. As soon as he
comes I will start. Old Joseph shall go with me. He knows what I do
not, of towns and routes, and all those troublesome things. You will
give us the money it will cost; and enough to pay for my father's
coming home. I have made his room ready. There isn't a speck or spot
in it, and there are fresh flowers every day. There have been ever
since I knew that room was his. I shall go to that city of New York
where--where it happened, and I shall find out the truth. I shall
certainly bring him home with me."

It was absurd. He said that to himself, not once but many times; yet
despite his common sense and his bitter experience, he could not but
catch something of her hopefulness. Yet so much the more hard to bear
would be her disappointment.

"Dear, I have no right, it may be, to stop you. It was agreed upon
between us that, when you were sixteen years old, if nothing happened
to make it unnecessary, you should be told. That is, if I believed you
had a character which could endure sorrow and not turn bitter under
it. I do so believe, I know. But though you may make the journey, if
you wish and it can be arranged safely, you must not even hope to do
more than see your father and that only for a brief time."

Margot smiled. The same bright, unconvinced smile with which she had
always received any astonishing statement. When, not much more than a
baby, she had been told that fire would burn, she had laughed her
unbelief that fire would burn, and had thrust her small hand into the
flame. The fire had burned, but she had still smiled, and bravely,
though her lips trembled and there were tears upon her cheeks.

"I must go, uncle. It is my right, and his. I must try this matter for
myself. I s