“I would rather not tell her,” said the mother, absently; “it is better she should not know.”

He hesitated for a second or two.

“Then it is impossible that a reconciliation between your husband and yourself—­”

“Oh no, no!” she said, somewhat sadly; “that is impossible, now.”

“And you are anxious he should not know that you and your daughter see each other.”

“I am not so anxious,” she said.  “I have faith in Natalushka:  I can perceive her courage.  But perhaps it would be better.”

“Very well.  Then come to these other rooms I have got for you; they are in a more secluded neighborhood.”

“Very well, monsieur.  I have but few things with me.  I will be ready soon.”

In less than half an hour after that the French landlady was receiving her new guest; and so eager was she to show to the English gentleman her gratitude for his substantial presents, that her officious kindness was almost burdensome.

“I thank you,” said the new-comer, with a smile, as the landlady brought her a cushion for her back the moment she sat down in the easy chair, “but I am not yet an invalid.”

Then would madame have some tea?  Or perhaps madame had not dined?  There was little in the house; but something could be prepared at once; from to-morrow morning madame’s instructions would be fulfilled to the letter.  To get rid of her, Brand informed her that madame had not dined, and would be glad to have anything that happened to be in the house.  Then she left, and he was about to leave also.

“No,” said the beautiful mother to him, with a smile on the pale face.  “Sit down; I have something to say to you.”

He sat down, his hat still in his hand.

“I have not thanked you,” she said.  “I see who has done all this:  do you think a stranger would know to have the white-rose scent for me that Natalie uses?  She was right:  you are kind—­you think of others.”

“It is nothing—­it is nothing,” he said, hastily, and with all an Englishman’s embarrassment.

“My dear friend,” said his companion, with a grave kindness in her tone, and a look of affectionate interest in her eyes, “I am going to prove my gratitude to you.  I am going to prevent—­what do you call it?—­a lover’s quarrel.”

He started.

“Yesterday,” she continued, still regarding him in that kindly way, “before we left your rooms, Natalushka was very reserved toward you; was it not so?  I perceived it; and you?”

“I—­I thought she was tired,” he stammered.

“To-morrow you are to fetch her here; and what if you find her still more reserved—­even cold toward you?  You will be pained, perhaps alarmed.  Ah, my dear friend, life is made very bitter sometimes by mistakes; so it is that I must tell you the reason.  The child loves you; be sure of that.  Yes; but she thinks that she has been too frank in saying so—­in time of trouble and anxiety; and now—­now that you are perhaps not going to America—­now that perhaps all the trouble is over—­now she is beginning to think she ought to be a little more discreet, as other young ladies are.  The child means no harm, but you and she must not quarrel.”