“At last you are restored to me!” exclaimed the poor mother, whose sinister apprehensions were revealed by that single exclamation. “I was going out to look for you at random,--in the streets, anywhere.” And, drawing her daughter within the parlor, she clasped her in her arms with convulsive tenderness, exclaiming, “Where were you? Where do you come from? Do you know that it is after nine o’clock?” Such had been Mlle. Gilberte’s state of mind during the whole of that evening, that she had not even thought of finding a pretext to justify her absence. Now it was too late. Besides, what explanation would have been plausible? Instead, therefore, of answering, “Why, dear mother,” she said with a forced smile, “has it not happened to me twenty times to go out in the neighborhood?” But Mme. Favoral’s confiding credulity existed no longer. “I have been blind, Gilberte,” she interrupted; “but this time my eyes must open to evidence. There is in your life a mystery, something extraordinary, which I dare not try to guess.” Mlle. Gilberte drew herself up, and, looking her mother straight in the eyes, with her beautiful, clear glance, “Would you suspect me of something wrong, then?” she exclaimed. Mme. Favoral stopped her with a gesture. “A young girl who conceals something from her mother always does wrong,” she uttered. “It is a long while since I have had for the first time the presentiment that you were hiding something from me. But, when I questioned you, you succeeded in quieting my suspicions. You have abused my confidence and my weakness.” This reproach was the most cruel that could be addressed to Mlle. Gilberte. The blood rushed to her face, and, in a firm voice, “Well, yes,” said she: “I have a secret.” “Dear me!” “And, if I did not confide it to you, it is because it is also the secret of another. Yes, I confess it, I have been imprudent in the extreme; I have stepped beyond all the limits of propriety and social custom; I have exposed myself to the worst calumnies. But never,--I swear it,--never have I done any thing of which my conscience can reproach me, nothing that I have to blush for, nothing that I regret, nothing that I am not ready to do again to-morrow.” “I said nothing, ‘tis true; but it was my duty. Alone I had to suffer the responsibility of my acts. Having alone freely engaged my future, I wished to bear alone the weight of my anxiety. I should never have forgiven myself for having added this new care to all your other sorrows.” Mme. Favoral stood dismayed. Big tears rolled down her withered cheeks. “Don’t you see, then,” she stammered, “that all my past suffering is as nothing compared to what I endure to-day? Good heavens! what have I ever done to deserve so many trials? Am I to be spared none of the troubles of this world? And it is through my own daughter that I am the most cruelly stricken!”