Ethel dropped her crocheting, rose hastily, and putting her arms about the Madame’s neck, said soothingly, “Don’t misunderstand me, auntie dear. I did not mean--I could not feel for a moment that my mother or I could wish to add a feather’s weight to all you have suffered, or help grieving over it, or wishing you might have been spared it.” “What then?” asked the Madame petulantly, and with a movement as if she would free herself from the enfolding arms. “Only,” Ethel said gently, withdrawing them and resuming her seat, “that sin as committed against God cannot be atoned for by anything that we can do or suffer.” “I shall try to sleep now,” said the Madame, closing her eyes. “I am exhausted.” And truly she looked as if she were; her face was haggard and old beyond her years, and her eyes were swollen with weeping. Ethel’s filled with tears as she gazed upon the careworn, miserable face, and thought how wretched she was in spite of all her wealth; how her wounded spirit would keep her so, even could her hand and health of body be restored. “Poor thing!” said the young girl to herself, “none but Jesus can do her good, and she will not come to Him.” Feigned sleep presently became real, and for an hour or more Ethel was to all intents and purposes as much alone as if she had been sole occupant of the room. She did not move from her chair, but her fingers were busy with her crocheting, her thoughts equally so with the tale to which she had been listening. It seemed to have made her acquainted with her mother, and she dwelt upon her character, as drawn by Madame Le Conte, with ever-increasing love and admiration. How she pitied her sorrows--the separation from him who had won her young, guileless heart, the news that he was lost to her, then of his death! Ah how could _she_ bear such tidings of Espy! He would never love another; but he might die. She shivered and turned pale at the very thought. Ah, God grant she might be spared that heart-breaking grief! But should it come, she would live single all her days; she could never be forced or persuaded to do as her mother had done; her nature was less gentle and yielding, better fitted to brave the storms of life. That loveless marriage! ah, how sad! how dreadful the trials that followed! And her mother had married again. Rolfe Heywood was not really dead, and perhaps--ah yes, it must have been he who had found and won her, he the one whom she had always loved; Ethel was certain of it, certain that none but he could have reconciled her, the bereaved, heart-broken mother, to life, and so quickly gained her for his bride.