“The best thing to do, it seems to me,” said the priest, gravely, “would be to live such a life that you need fear neither the scrutiny of your child nor of any one else.” “That was my wish, sir,” she answered. “As Jack grew older, I wished to make his home all that which it ought to be. Besides, before long, my position will be assured. For some time I have been thinking of marrying, but to do this it was necessary to send my boy away for a time that he might obtain the education worthy of the name he ought to bear. I thought that nowhere could he do as well as here, but at one blow you repulse him and discourage his mother’s good resolutions.” Here the Superior arrested her with an exclamation of astonishment. He hesitated a moment; then looking her straight in her eyes, said,— “So be it, madame. I yield to your wishes. Little Jack pleases me very much; I consent to receive him among our pupils.” “My dear sir!” “But on two conditions.” “I am ready to accept all.” “The first is, that until the day that your position is assured, the child shall spend his vacations under this roof, and shall not return to yours.” “But he will die, my poor Jack, if he does not see his mother!” “Oh, you can come here whenever you please; only—and this is my second condition—you will not see him in the parlor, but always here in my private room, where I shall take care that you are not interfered with and that no one sees you.” She rose in indignation. The idea that she could never enter the parlor, or be present on the reception-days, when she could astonish the other guests with the beauty of her child, with the richness of her toilette, that she could never say to her friends, “I met at the school, yesterday, Madame de C———, or Madame de V———,” that she must meet Jack in secret, all this revolted her. The astute priest had struck well. “You are cruel with me, sir. You oblige me to refuse the favor for which I have so earnestly entreated, but I must protect my dignity as woman and mother. Your conditions are impossible. And what would my child think—” She stopped, for outside the glass she saw the fair, curly head of the child, with eyes brightened by the fresh air and by his anxiety. Upon a sign from his mother, he entered quickly. “Ah, mamma, how good you are! I was afraid you were gone!” She took his hand hastily. “You will go with me,” she answered; “we are not wanted here.” And she sailed out erect and haughty, leading the boy, who was stupefied by this departure which so strongly resembled a flight. She hardly acknowledged the respectful salute of the good father, who had also risen hastily from his chair; but quickly as she moved, it was not too quick for Jack to hear a gentle voice murmur, “Poor child! poor child!” in a tone of compassion that went to his heart. He was pitied—and why? For a long time he pondered over this.