“Oh no; she is too brave.”

“What beautiful hair she has!” said this worn-faced woman with the sad eyes.  “Ah, many a time I have said to myself that when I take her to my heart I will feel the beautiful soft hair; I will stroke it; her head will lie on my bosom, and I will gather courage from her eyes:  when she laughs my heart will rejoice!  I have lived many years in solitude—­in secret, with many apprehensions; perhaps I have grown timid and fearful; once I was not so.  But I have been troubling myself with fears; I have said, ’Ah, if she looks coldly on me, if she turns away from me, then my heart will break!’”

“I do not think you have much to fear,” said he, regarding the beautiful, sad face.

“I have tried to catch the sound of her voice,” she continued, absently, and her eyes were filled with tears, “but I could not do that.  But I have watched her, and wondered.  She does not seem proud and cold.”

“She will not be proud or cold to you,” he said, “when she is kindness and gentleness to all the world.”

“And—­and when shall you see her again?” she asked, timidly.

“Now,” he said.  “If you will permit me, I will go to her at once.  I will bring her to you.”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed hastily drying her eyes.  “Oh no!  She must not find a sad mother, who has been crying.  She will be repelled.  She will think, ‘I have enough of sadness.’  Oh no, you must let me collect myself:  I must be very brave and cheerful when my Natalie comes to me.  I must make her laugh, not cry.”

“Madame,” said he, gravely, “I may have but a few days longer in England:  do you think it is wise to put off the opportunity?  You see, she must be prepared; it would be a terrible shock if she were to know suddenly.  And how can one tell what may happen to-morrow or next day?  At the present moment I know she is at home; I could bring her to you directly.”

“Just now?” she said; and she began to tremble again.  She rose and went to a mirror.

“She could not recognize herself in me.  She would not believe me.  And I should frighten her with my mourning and my sadness.”

“I do not think you need fear, madame.”

She turned to him eagerly.

“Perhaps you would explain to her?  Ah, would you be so kind!  Tell her I have seen much trouble of late.  My father has just died, after years of illness; and we were kept in perpetual terror.  You will tell her why I dared not go to her before:  oh no! not that—­not that!”

“You forget, madame, that I myself do not know.”

“It is better she should not know—­better she should not know!” she said, rapidly.  “No, let the girl have confidence in her father while she remains in his house.  Perhaps some time she may know; perhaps some one who is a fairer judge than I will tell her the story and make excuses:  it must be that there is some excuse.”

“She will not want to know; she will only want to come to you.”