Camille had written from the dictation of the infamous French maid. She had alternately implored and threatened, vowing that Norman’s little protégée should serve her turn to point an infamous charge against him if he persevered in his resolve to procure a divorce. The delicate cheek of the matron flushed indignantly as her dark eyes traveled over the paper. Meanwhile, the observant child had secured the envelope, which had fluttered to the floor, and sitting down, she cut it into bits with her tiny scissors. She waited silently but patiently for the letter, turning her blue eyes with bird-like eagerness toward the reader. When at last Mrs. de Vere finished and handed it back to her son, and he crumpled it in his hand and flung it disdainfully from him, Sweetheart pounced upon it unnoticed and sat down to destroy it with the aid of her little scissors. She spread out the pretty pink sheet, but the delicate fragrance exhaling from it arrested her olfactories, and after holding it pensively to her nose a moment, she concluded not to immolate it yet; so, quite unobserved by her elders, she crossed the room to her box of toys, and hid Camille’s letter among the leaves of a picture-book. Mother and son stood looking at each other in wordless dismay, unmindful of the child at her play. Neither could bear to speak. At last the mother said, sadly: “You see now that you must give it up, Norman. You can not drag our proud old name through the mire. She will consent to a separation, she says. Will not that content you?” “No,” he replied, bitterly. “But, Norman, this is horrible! Will you not think of me? How can I bear it that this shame should fall on you and on the proud name that was your father’s pride? Have pity on my gray hairs,” she faltered. “Mother, you torture me,” he cried, for it seemed most cruel that she should misjudge him--should deem him careless of her happiness. But he could not tell her the truth. He must bear his pain in silence. She went on, pleadingly: “I am old. I should not live long to bear the burden of shame; but, Norman, think of that sweet and lovely little child. The mystery that surrounds her may never be penetrated, and this horrible scandal, if promulgated, may cast an ineffaceable blight upon her future. Think of all these things, Norman, before you proceed further.” He was thinking of them. The white agony of his face showed it. In the face of his despair he silently wished himself dead and at rest from the war of emotions raging within him. That he must break with Camille he knew. Her sin had placed an insurmountable barrier between their lives.