Mme. Durrien, alone in the parlor in Varennes Street, awaited
impatiently the return of her father. She had had her suspicions
aroused, and was only waiting until the dinner hour arrived to ask for
an explanation.

For several days she had been disturbed by his strange behavior, by the
dispatches which were continually arriving, and by the double meaning
which she thought she detected beneath all he said. Accustomed to talk
with him about his lightest thoughts and impressions, she could not
understand why he should seek to conceal anything from her. Several
times she had been on the point of demanding a solution of the enigma,
but she had kept silence, out of respect for the evident wishes of her
father.

"He is trying to prepare me for some surprise, doubtless," she said to
herself. "He is sure to tell me if anything pleasant has occurred."

But for the last two or three days, especially that morning, she had
been impressed with a sort of eagerness which Mr. Durrien displayed in
all his manner, as well as the happy air with which he regarded her,
insisting in hearing over and over again from her lips, all the details
of the disaster of the "Cynthia," which he had avoided speaking of for a
long time. As she mused over his strange behavior a sort of revelation
came to her. She felt sure that her father must have received some
favorable intelligence which had revived the hope of finding her child.
But without the least idea that he had already done so, she determined
not to retire that night until she had questioned him closely.

Mme. Durrien had never definitely renounced the idea that her son was
living. She had never seen him dead before her eyes, and she clung
mother-like to the hope that he was not altogether lost to her. She said
that the proofs were insufficient, and she nourished the possibility of
his sudden return. She might be said to pass her days waiting for him.
Thousands of women, mothers of soldiers and sailors, pass their lives
under this touching delusion. Mrs. Durrien had a greater right than they
had to preserve her faith in his existence. In truth the tragical scene
enacted twenty-two years ago was always before her eyes. She beheld the
"Cynthia" filling with water and ready to sink. She saw herself tying
her infant to a large buoy while the passengers and sailors were rushing
for the boats. They left her behind, she saw herself imploring,
beseeching that they would at least take her baby. A man