"I should not love him if I could rule him," said Madeline, proudly. Mrs. Capelle laughed and kissed her. "Tell me all about it," she said softly. They talked until the hand of the clock pointed to twelve, and only the barking of a dog or two pierced the silence resting upon the town. "We have no secrets—no secrets from each other, have we, mama?" said Madeline with a happy laugh. "No secrets, sweet? No, no; there should be no secrets between mother and child," said the elder woman; but her eyes fell; a paleness swept over her face. It was a swift, subtle change, unnoticed by the girl in the delicious absorption of her thoughts. That was a winter to live in the memory of those lovers as long as they lived. Every one of the swiftly flying days seemed to have its own special joy, its own sweet experiences. When apart, there were long letters written out of the fullness of their hearts; when together, long talks, or delicious silences in which it seemed enough that they could be together. And there were letters from his New England home to her, one from his mother, as sweet and gentle as her own mother could have written. "She must be lovely, Roger," she said to him. "She is," he replied with proud loyalty. "I am longing for you to see her." "I shrink from it, for if she should not be pleased with me—" "She must; she cannot help it, dearest. Ah! you know that you’ll charm her," putting his hand under her chin, and turning her face upward to his eyes, its palpitant color, proud, shy eyes, and lovely tremulousness, a tacit confession of his power. Before she could elude him—for with all her caressing ways and Southern temperament, lending itself so naturally to demonstrativeness, she was very chary of her favors—he drew her into his arms against his heart, and kissed her. Mrs. Capelle spent those winter days sewing on fine linen, cambric, sheer muslin, and lace, stitching many loving thoughts into the dainty garments intended for Madeline’s wardrobe. Imperceptibly, as it were, she had grown very fragile, and the least excitement caused her to palpitate and tremble, with flushed face and hand pressed upon her heart. She had been a devout Catholic in her youth, and though removed from her church, she still occasionally attended mass in Atlanta, and went to confession. But as the winter passed, her thoughts turned longingly to Father Vincent, her old father confessor, and one day in the early spring she received a letter from him. He would in a short time pass through Marietta on his way to the North. Could he stop for a day with them? It seemed such a direct answer to her secret desire for his counsel that she joyfully hastened to reply, telling him how she needed his advice and his blessing. She had rejoiced over Madeline’s engagement, but as the time set for her marriage drew near, some secret trouble seemed to wear upon her, much to the girl’s distress.