CHAPTER XXXVII.
A GOOD WOMAN
As briefly as possible must now be sketched the story of Emilia's life during the next eighteen years. To her resolution not to return to England she remained firm during that period. Two days after Leonard left her she quitted the town to which he had brought her, and twelve months afterward she found herself settled in Geneva. It was her good fortune to meet an elderly lady who required a companion. The name of this lady was Madame Lambert, and she was attracted by the gentleness of Emilia's manner. These two ladies happened to be staying at the same hotel for a few days, and Emilia was enabled to render Madame Lambert some slight service. Like Emilia, the elder lady was travelling alone, and one evening Madame Lambert was seized with a sudden faintness at the table d'hôte. Emilia, who was sitting next to her, assisted her to her room, and remained with her during the night, sharing her bed by invitation. In her situation Emilia was compelled to register her name as Mrs. Braham, and Madame Lambert, questioning her, was told by Emilia that she was a widow. Emilia did not attempt to justify herself to her conscience; she knew that the duplicity was necessary for the credit of her unborn child.
"Are you quite alone?" asked Madame Lambert.
"Yes," replied Emilia. "My husband died poor, and left me very little. My intention is to seek a situation as governess."
"In England?"
"No, here in Switzerland. I shall be happier here. I have no friends in England, and my knowledge of the English language will perhaps enable me to obtain a situation more easily here than there."
"You will soon," said Madame Lambert, in a tone of kindly significance, "be compelled to rest a while. For a little time at least you will not be able to fill a situation as governess."
Emilia blushed and sighed. "I have thought of that," she said, "with fear and trembling."
"Because you are poor?" questioned Madame Lambert, speaking still with the utmost kindness.
"Yes," said Emilia, softly. Frankness was best under the circumstances.
"My dear," said Madame Lambert, "I am sure you are a lady."
"My father was a gentleman," said Emilia. "He fell into misfortune, and when he died I was penniless."
"And you married a penniless gentleman. Ah, how imprudent is youth! But I have been young myself, and have loved and lost. My dear, neither am I rich, but I have a life income which is sufficient. It dies with me, I regret to say. I have a reason for telling you this. Like yourself, I am alone in the world. I was born in Geneva, and when a course of travel, which my doctor recommended for my health, is over, shall return there to live. Will you travel with me as my friend and companion? I can offer you very little in the shape of salary, but it will be enough to provide you with clothes, and perhaps a little more. Then you will have a lady with you when your baby is born. What do you say?"
"What can I say," replied Emilia, in a voice of gratitude that completed the conquest she had began, "but thank you from my inmost heart for your kind offer? I can scarcely believe it real."
"It is real, my dear. Heaven is very good, and sends us friends when we least expect them. I am sure we shall get along very well together. You accept, then?"
"I accept with gratitude." She raised the hand of the kind lady to her lips, and her tears bedewed it. "Yes, God is very good to me. I will prove worthy of your kindness. You shall never repent it."
"If thought otherwise I should not press it upon you, my dear. You will really be rendering me a greater service than it is in my power to render to you. It is miserable to travel alone, without a kindred soul to talk to and confide in. So it is settled. We shall be true friends."
From that day Madame Lambert and Emilia travelled together, not as mistress and companion, but as friends, until the time arrived when Madame Lambert saw that it was imperative that Emilia should remain for a few weeks quiet and free from the fatigues of a wandering life. Thus faith and goodness were rewarded.
In a picturesque and retired village Emilia's baby, a girl, was born, and baptized in the name of Constance, Madame Lambert's christian name. Sweet and profound was the happiness with which the young mother's heart was filled when she held her baby to her breast. A sacred joy was hers, in which she found a holy consolation for the troubles through which she had passed. Madame Lambert was delighted, and drew from the mother and child a newborn pleasure. She never tired of showing them kindness; had they been of her own blood she could scarcely have been more considerate and thoughtful. She called Constance "our child," and was as nervous over the little one's trials as Emilia herself. In such sympathetic companionship, and with such a sweet treasure as she now possessed, Emilia could only be happy. She never dwelt with sorrow upon the past. With rare wisdom she destroyed the bridge behind her, and buried the memories which had threatened to utterly wreck and ruin her life. Constance was a child of love, not of shame. Emilia's pure soul exonerated her from self-reproach, and shame could never be her portion now that there was no link, except the loving link of a baby's hands, between the past and the future. Wherever she turned she met looks of kindness; no longer was she avoided and repulsed. The world once more was sweet, and bright, and beautiful, and when she prayed to our Father in Heaven it was in the happy consciousness that He knew her to be a pure and innocent woman.
"Baby, baby, baby!" she whispered to the child in her "You have restored me to life, to joy, to happiness. Oh, my baby, my baby! Can I ever be sufficiently grateful to you? Dear Lord in Heaven, give me strength and wisdom to guide her aright, to keep her from pitfalls, to see her grow in purity and innocence to a happy womanhood! Do not take her from me. Let her remain with me as a shield and protector. Through her I see goodness and light. Oh, my angel, my angel!"
She wiped her happy tears away, and sang and crooned and worshipped as only a good mother can. Ah, the little fingers, the childish prattle, the pattering of little feet, what would the world be without them? Religion would be dead, and faith a mockery not to be indulged in without a sneering devil creeping close to lay its icy hands upon hearts in which sweet thoughts are harbored. Flowers of the human garden, let us be humbly grateful for the light they shed upon the dark spaces which at one time or other every mortal has to tread. In the midst of the gloom which surrounds us shines a star illumining a fair face and a head with flowing curls. In the midst of the stillness by which we are encompassed steals a musical voice, with its divine melody of childish laughter. What is that light in the distance? A bright cloud shining on a little bed, by the side of which kneels a small form clad in white. The pretty hands are clasped, and from the lovely lips issue the words, "Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name!"
It was impossible that Emilia could forget Gerald, but her thoughts of him were ever gentle and kind and forgiving. "You see our child, dear Gerald" – thus ran her thoughts-"watch over her. I forgive you for the wrong you committed. Do not trouble and sorrow over it. It is done and gone, and only sweetness remains. You have given me a flower which makes my heart a garden of love. God bless you, dear Gerald!" So from the bitterest woe in which a human being could be plunged uprose a heavenly light.
"We must not spoil our child," said Madame Lambert.
"We cannot spoil her," said Emilia. "Is she not beautiful?"
"The loveliest baby that ever drew breath, my dear. You happy woman! If I were as young as you are I should be jealous of you."
The good lady was amazed at the new beauty which now dwelt in Emilia's face. The young mother was transfigured. A holy radiance shed its light upon her. Madame Lambert found herself presently worshipping the mother almost as much as she worshipped the child.
"If you were my own daughter, my dear," she said, "I could not love you more."
"You are the best woman in the world," responded Emilia. "Heaven guided my feet when it led me to you."
"Now it is time," said Madame Lambert, "to think of returning to Geneva. There is our baby's education to be attended to."
"Yes," said Emilia, gravely. "She must be taught everything that is good."
And baby was only four months old! But mothers let their thoughts run ahead.
They did not, however, return at once to Madame Lambert's home. They lingered for two or three months in the valleys and mountains, and gathered garlands and posies for their child, which they pressed and preserved as though they were jewels of inestimable value. And, indeed, there are no jewels to compare with memories so sweet and pure. At length the happy rambles were over, and they were in Geneva.
"Welcome home," said Madame Lambert.
Her apartments, in a good position in the city, consisted of five rooms and a kitchen. Two of these rooms Madame Lambert gave to Emilia, one a sitting-room, the other a bedroom for her and the baby. During Madame Lambert's absence the apartments had been taken care of by an old servant, who acted as cook and general domestic, to whom Madame Lambert had sent certain written instructions. When Madame Lambert said to Emilia, "Welcome, home," she conducted Emilia to the rooms set apart for her, and the young mother's eyes overflowed as they fell upon the flowers which welcomed her and at the other evidences of a loving friendship which the thoughtfulness of Madame Lambert had provided.
"How good you are to me!" she murmured.
"We are going to be very happy here," said Madame Lambert.
"I should be undeserving, indeed," said Emilia, kissing her kind friend and putting the baby into her arms, "if I were not happy with you."
Madame Lambert was well known in Geneva, and had many friends there, to all of whom she introduced Emilia. It was through these introductions that Emilia was enabled to obtain employment as a governess, which occupied her four or five hours a day, and her sweetness and gentleness soon made her loved by all who knew her. In this way passed five happy years, and then a calamity occurred. Madame Lambert fell ill, and the doctors said that she could not recover. When this verdict was imparted to Madame Lambert, she received it with resignation.
"I have only one regret, my dear," she said to Emilia, "that I must say farewell to you and our child. But my spirit will be with you always."
"Dear friend, dear friend!" murmured Emilia.
"It's a great comfort to me to know," said the dying woman, "that you are well established here, and can get a living. You are so much loved that I have no fears of your future. I am truly sorry that I cannot leave you and our Constance a fortune. There is a little money, very little, but it will be useful; and in my will I have left the furniture of our home to you. Then I have been clever enough to pay the rent in advance for the next three years, so that you will be able to put by a little more. God bless you, my dear; you have brightened the last years of an old woman's life."
In a voice choked with emotion Emilia thanked and blessed the good lady, who smiled and fondled her hand. She saw little Constance frequently, but she would not allow the child to be saddened by keeping her too long in the room of a dying woman.
"Childhood should be bright," she said. "I want our child to remember me in my cheerful moods."
"She will remember and pray for you all her life," sobbed Emilia, "as I shall, dearest and best of friends."
The end came a little after midnight.
"Do you think," she whispered, with a pause between each word, "that you could let me kiss our dear child without awaking her?"
"I will bring her," said Emilia.
"Kiss me first, dear," said the dying lady.
Emilia kissed her, and lay a few moments with her face nestling to that of her friend. Then she went and brought the child in her arms. Constance was asleep. Emilia had lifted her very lightly from her bed, and now she laid her by Madame Lambert's side, and covered her with a warm shawl. The child's fragrant breath flowed upon the dying lady's face.
"Our little angel is the sweetest flower the world contains," murmured Madame Lambert. "Good-by, sweet one. Heaven guard and protect you!"
She closed her eyes, and did not open them again. And so the good soul passed away, with the child's breath fanning her face.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CONSTANCE AND JULIAN
The tide in Emilia's affairs which had led her to Geneva proved to be most auspicious and fortunate. Her home with Madame Lambert was happy and peaceful, and when that good friend had passed away there was no break in the even tenor of her days. The connections she had formed were lasting and endurable, and she was never without pupils. One family recommended her to another, and she was constantly employed, meeting respect everywhere. Her earnings were not large, but they were sufficient for her modest wants. Blessed with the companionship of a child whose loveliness and sweet disposition won the hearts of all who came into association with her, the life led by Emilia and her daughter may be likened to a peaceful lake nestling in a valley beyond the reach of storm and tempest. The love Emilia bore for Constance was deep and profound, and represented for the devoted mother the light and joy of the world. So years passed until Constance was seventeen.
All these years Emilia had heard no news from England, and had not seen a face she had known in her youth. The past was buried in a grave destined, as she believed, never to be disturbed, and there was not a cloud in the horizon to warn her of a coming storm. It was the happiest time of her life.
Constance had many young friends, and among them, as was natural-being a beautiful and accomplished girl, with winning and amiable manners-an unreasonable number of young gentlemen who adored her. Of these the favored one was Julian Bordier.
M. Bordier, his father, was the head of an important watch manufactory, a concern the reputation of which was world wide. The name of Bordier was famous; his sign-manual engraved on the back-plate of a watch was a guarantee of excellence. Consequently the Bordiers-father, mother, son, and two daughters-were rich.
Social grades are not so unfairly marked in Geneva as in other cities. To have been well introduced, to be well educated, to live a reputable life, to have good manners, form the open sesame to polite society. Emilia and her daughter supplied all these requirements, and their circle of acquaintance was large and reputable. It was through the young people that Emilia was introduced to the house of the Bordiers, and once admitted she was always welcomed with cordiality. In all respects Julian Bordier was a gentleman and a man of refined instincts; unhappily his sight was failing him, and the Genevese specialists seemed to be powerless in their efforts to arrest the affliction of blindness which threatened him. The effect which this had upon the love which grew between Constance and Julian was to instil into her feelings for him a sentiment of divine pity. Before they were absolutely aware of it their hearts were engaged.
Emilia watched the progress of this mutual affection with solicitous eyes, but she did not speak of it to her daughter. It was for Constance to introduce the subject, and that she had not done so was a proof that there had been no love-making between the young people. Constance believed her secret was not known, but the insight of a mother's love is keen and strong, and Emilia knew it almost before her daughter. The knowledge disquieted her. They were poor, the Bordiers were rich. But it was not in her power to guide the current; she must wait and hope for the best.
One night Emilia and Constance came home later than usual. They had been spending a musical evening at the Bordiers' house, and Emilia had noticed for the first time that Julian's attentions to her child were more than ordinarily marked. Now and again she looked apprehensively at M. Bordier, who was sitting in his usual corner, and seemed to be taking notice of his son's attentions to Constance; the father's face was grave and observant, but there was no trace of disapproval on it. This was comforting, but it did not remove Emilia's apprehensions. It was a fine night, and Julian walked home with them. It needed not a loving mother's insight to detect the newborn tenderness of Julian's manner when he bade Constance good-night and held her hand in his.
Mother and daughter derived delight from attending upon each other, but on this night Emilia dispensed with Constance's services. She brushed her own hair quickly, and then pressed Constance gently into a chair, and busied herself over the abundant tresses of her beloved child. With what loving care did she comb out the flowing locks, her heart beating with infinite love for this sweet and only treasure of her life! Then she coaxed Constance into bed, and knelt by the bedside and prayed.
"Mamma!"
Emilia rose from her knees, and bent her face down to Constance.
"Yes, dear child."
"I am almost afraid to speak, mamma."
"Is it about Julian Bordier, dear?"
"Yes."
"Tell me, my darling."
"You will not be angry, mamma?"
"Angry, darling-with you!"
"He is coming to speak to you to-morrow, mamma."
"He loves you, Constance."
"Yes, mamma."
"And you love him."
The young girl hid her face on her mother's neck.
"You are not sorry, mamma, are you?"
"I think only of your happiness, darling. I have no other object in life."
"Oh, mamma, you are the sweetest, dearest mother in the world. It is ungrateful of me; but, mamma, I cannot help it."
"I know, I know, my darling. What does his father say?"
"He dues not know-no one knows. Are you not surprised, mamma?"
"I think I have seen it for some time past, my sweet."
"And you never mentioned it, mamma-never even whispered it?"
"It was for you to speak first, Constance, and I waited."
"I can scarcely believe it. Oh, mamma, mamma, I love him, I love him!"
"Dear child! When does he intend to speak to his father?"
"After he has seen you. He did intend to speak to both of you first before he said a word to me, but somehow, mamma-I don't know really how it happened, nor does he-Mamma, you are crying!"
"I cannot help it, dear. You are my only one, my only one-"
"But, mamma, we shall still be together. Julian says so. We shall never, never be separated."
Emilia smiled sadly. "I have always liked Julian, dear, and if all should turn out well I am sure he will make you happy."
"He loves you dearly, mamma. I shall be glad when to-morrow is over."
"It will soon be over, dear child. Time passes quickly. Now go to sleep, my dear, dear child!"
They kissed and embraced again and again, and then Constance's head sank upon the pillow, and she fell asleep with her mother's arm encircling her neck. Emilia lay awake for hours. Her daughter's confession had revived memories of the past, and she could not banish forebodings. Of all the young men whom she knew, Julian Burdier was the one she would have chosen for Constance, but she dreaded the coming meeting with his father. She could not explain her fears, but she was haunted by threatening shadows. Daylight was dawning when she fell asleep, and she rose unrefreshed from her bed. Constance, dressed, was sitting by her side when she awoke. Never had she seen her daughter look so beautiful; love made her radiant with angelic loveliness.
"I want you to look very, very bright, mamma," said Constance. "I will help you dress."
Engrossed in her own happy dreams she did not notice the tired expression on her mother's face, which, after a little while, wore away beneath the influence of Constance's gentle ministrations.
"Julian will be here early, mamma," she said, when breakfast was over. "I don't know what to do with myself. Shall I go out, or remain at home? Hark! Yes; that is his step?"
"Go to your bedroom, darling," said Emilia, with fond kisses, "and wait till I call you."
Constance obeyed, and Emilia admitted the young man, who entered the room with flowers for Constance and her mother. She motioned him to a seat; she was palpitating with emotion, but she succeeded in preserving an apparently calm demeanor.
"You expected me," he said, after she had accepted the flowers and laid them aside.
"Constance told me you would come," said Emilia, gravely.
"Is she well?"
"Quite well."
Then there was an awkward pause, but soon the young man took heart of grace, and in modest, manly fashion laid his petition before Emilia.
"I cannot hope to be worthy of her," he said; "no man could be, but I can promise sincerely to do all in my power to make her happy. I love her very dearly. What can I say more? You will not refuse me?"
"If it depended upon me," said Emilia, speaking very slowly, "I should be contented to place my daughter's happiness in your keeping, for I believe you to be worthy of her."
"How can I thank you?" said Julian, impetuously. "It does depend upon you. Then all is settled. May I see Constance?"
She gently shook her head. "Not yet. I could have wished you had consulted me before you said anything to Constance. I am not blaming you-I know there are feelings it is difficult to keep in check, but I think it would have been better if you had confided in me first. I could then have advised you."
"To do what? You have no objection to entrusting me with her; and indeed, indeed, your trust shall not be misplaced. Perhaps you are right, but it can make no difference now that I know you approve."
"There is one," said Emilia, steadily, "to whom you should have spoken even before you addressed me or Constance."
"My father?"
"Yes, your father."
"Again, I daresay you are right. But I am sure of my father. He loves me, and will not thwart me-"
Emilia held up her hand. "Have you considered the difference in our position?"
"No-except that I have always felt that Constance is far above me, if that is what you mean."
"It is not what I mean. Parents are compelled to view such matters in a different light. I can give Constance no dowry."
"I want none. I want her."
"And with your father's approval, you shall have my consent. It is my duty to say this to you, and as you have consulted me first I should wish him to know that I have so expressed myself, and that my answer is in his hands."
"Very well, I will go to him at once. There is not the least doubt of his answer, and I have yours already."
"No," interrupted Emilia, firmly, but with a tender inclining toward the young man, "you have not mine already. I cannot give it to you definitely until I have seen or heard from your father."
"How precise you are," said Julian, in a gay tone; "but my dear Constance's mother cannot be wrong in anything she does." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You will not turn me away without allowing me to see her?"
"I will not turn you away at all, but I cannot sanction anything more than kind friendship between you and my child till your father has spoken. Julian, do you not see that I am striving to perform a duty which I consider right?"
"Of course I do, and I am greatly to be blamed for worrying you. But let me see her for one moment. It is only to say good-morning and to shake hands. You would not have refused me yesterday."
"Nor will I now. I rely upon your honor, Julian."
"You may, implicitly."
She called her daughter, and turned from them while they spoke. They exchanged only a few words, but Constance's hand remained in Julian's and that was happiness enough for the present. Then Julian called out to Emilia:
"Good-morning. I shall be here again very soon."
She accompanied him to the door, and sent him away with a bright smile, but there was a fear at her heart which she could not have defined had she endeavored to set it clearly before her.
An hour afterward M. Bordier was announced.
"Constance," said Emilia, "I think you had best take a walk while I speak to Julian's father."
Constance kissed her mother in silence, and was leaving the room as M. Bordier entered it.
"Are you going for a walk?" he asked, holding out his hand.
His voice and manner were so affectionate that her heart was filled with joy. Emilia's heart also throbbed with hope.
"Yes, sir," replied Constance, raising her eyes timidly to his face.
"It is a bright morning, my dear," he said. "I am glad for your sake and for Julian's."
She wiped away the happy tears as she descended the stairs and out into the sunshine.
"I thought I would lose no time," said M. Bordier to Emilia, "although really it seemed as if I were not master of my own movements. Julian was so impatient that he almost thrust me from the house. We will not beat about the bush, my dear madam. Julian is my only son, and that which affects his happiness affects me almost as nearly."
"Then you have no objection to the engagement?" said Emilia, eagerly.
"None. Julian has related to me all that passed between you and him, and said you chided him for not coming to me first."
"I considered it the right course."
"Perhaps, but young people in love are impetuous, and do not reflect. We ourselves were young, and can recall the time when we were in their position." A shiver passed through Emilia at this allusion. "You made some reference to Julian about the difference in our circumstances. I intend to speak very plainly, you see, because I want the ground cleared once and for all, for all our sakes. Well, there is a difference, I admit, but it is not to be taken into account. You can give your daughter no dowry. It is not needed; I am rich enough to make the future easy for them. My son is a gentleman, your daughter is a lady. I approve of her, and I shall be proud to receive her into my family." Emilia gazed at him with swimming eyes; the fear at her heart was fading away. "She is a great favorite in our home, and we are all very fond of her. I am glad that the matter has come to an issue before Julian leaves Geneva-"
"Is he going away, then?" asked Emilia, startled at the news.
"For a short time only, I hope, and I shall go with him. His failing sight has caused us great anxiety, and the doctors here can do nothing for him. We intend to go to Paris, to consult an eminent specialist, and I trust he will come home quite cured. So that it is as well he has spoken to Constance. Indeed I suspect his projected departure caused him to open his heart to her earlier than he intended. Some persons are opposed to early marriages; I am not; and to judge from your looks you must be of my opinion. You married young?"
"Yes," replied Emilia, faintly. Her fears revived; her undefined apprehension of evil was beginning to take shape.
"Your name Braham, might belong to any nationality. Was your husband French?"
"He was English." Her throat was dry; she could scarcely articulate her words. M. Bordier looked at her in concern. "You are not well."
"A sudden faintness, that is all," said Emilia, in a firmer tone. She must not give way; her daughter's happiness was at stake. "It has passed off now."
"English? And you are English also?"
"Yes."
"I remember when the good Madame Lambert brought you here, that there was some curiosity felt as to your nationality, but Madame Lambert silenced it by saying that you would prefer not to refer to the past. That was woman's talk, and it soon ceased. Your daughter bears Madame Lambert's name, Constance."
"Madame Lambert wished it."
"Were you and she related-excuse my interminable questions, but now that we are about to become closely connected we should know more of each other's antecedents."
"We were not related."
"Ah, well. While I am away I may run over to England. I should not be sorry for the opportunity of calling upon your friends there."
"I have no friends there."
"Some relatives surely."
"None."
"Well, your late husband's relatives."
"M. Bordier," said Emilia, summoning all her courage to her aid, "there are in the world persons whose past is so fraught with unhappy memories that it is painful to revive them. Such has been my past, and the simple references you have made have opened wounds I hoped were healed. Pray question me no more."
"I will not," said M. Bordier, kindly, but also with a certain gravity which impressed itself strongly upon Emilia, "we will say nothing more about it at present, and I ask your pardon for causing you pain. But still, when the formal preliminaries to the marriage between Constance and Julian are prepared-which cannot be done until Julian and I return to Geneva-some necessary information of your past will have, of course, to be given to make the contract legal and binding. Until then we will let the matter drop. And now allow me to assure you that I give my consent to the engagement with satisfaction and pleasure. Julian's mother and I have often discussed the future of our children, and shall be quite satisfied if they marry into families of respectable character. That is all we ask, and all we consider we have a right to demand. As to worldly prospects, we will make that our affair, being, I am thankful to say, able to provide for our children and the mates they may choose."
He held out his hand to Emilia, and with old-fashioned courtesy kissed her, saying, "You and your daughter will make our house your home while Julian and I are absent."
"How long do you expect to be away?" asked Emilia.
"It depends upon what the specialists say of Julian's sight. But under any circumstances we shall be absent for at least three months, I expect. Of course the young people will correspond. The first part of their courtship will have to be done by correspondence."
Soon after M. Bordier's departure Constance returned, and was made happy by the account of the interview. Emilia said nothing of M. Bordier's references to the past, a theme which had only been dropped to be taken up again when M. Bordier and Julian came back to Geneva. The evil day was postponed, but Emilia would not darken the joy of the lovers by speaking of it, or by hinting at her fast-growing fears of what the final issue would be. M. Bordier had made it clear to her that it was absolutely necessary that those who formed matrimonial connections with his children must be persons of respectable character. What was she? What was her darling Constance? Unknown to all in Geneva, where they were both respected and loved, they bore the maiden name of the mother. Let this fact be revealed, let the story of her life be made public, and they would be irretrievably disgraced, their position lost, their happiness blasted. Julian remained in Geneva two days after Emilia's interview with M. Bordier, and now that there was no restraint upon the relations between the young lovers, Emilia recognized how irrevocably Constance's happiness was linked with Julian. Was it to be left to her, the fond, the suffering mother, to wreck the future of the child she adored? Was it fated that she should be compelled to say to Constance, "You cannot wed the man you love. He is a gentleman, with an unstained record. You are a child of shame, and are not fit to associate with respectable people. Take your rightful place in the world-in the gutters-and look at me and know that I have put you there." Yes, this, in effect, was the judgment she would have to pronounce. The agony she endured during those two happy days of courtship is indescribable; but she schooled herself to some semblance of outward composure, and successfully parried the solicitous inquiries of those by whom she was surrounded. As to what was to be done, she would not, she could not think of it till Julian and his father were gone. They were to be away at least three months; within that time much might be accomplished-she did not know what or how-but she would pray to God to guide her. So she suffered in silence, and kissed Julian good-by, and sat quiet in her room while the lovers were exchanging their last words of affection. Were they to be indeed the last? Were they never to meet again, to fondly renew their vows of unchangeful love? It was for her, the tender mother, to answer these questions. She was the Sibyl who held in her hands the skeins of fate. It was for her to shed light or darkness upon the future of her darling child.