"I see; I see;" said Madame von Marwitz, with a certain briskness, as though, still, to give herself time to think. "It might have been wiser to wait--to wait for a little. I would have written to you. We could have consulted. It is serious, you know, my Karen, very serious, to leave one's husband. I went away so that this should not come to you." "I could not wait. I could not stay with him any longer," said Karen heavily. "There is more, you mean. You had words? He hates me more than you thought?" Karen paused, and then assented: "Yes; more than I thought." Above the girl's head, which she held pressed down on her shoulder, Madame von Marwitz pondered for some moments. "Alas!" she then uttered in a deep voice. And, Karen saying nothing, she repeated on a yet more melancholy note: "Alas!" Karen now raised herself from Tante's shoulder; but, at the gesture of withdrawal, Madame von Marwitz caught her close again and embraced her. "I feared it," she said. "I saw it. I hoped to hide it by my flight. My poor child! My beloved Karen!" They held each other for some silent moments. Then Madame von Marwitz rose. "You are weary, my Karen; you must rest; is it not so? I will send Tallie to you. You will see Tallie--she is a perfection of discretion; you do not shrink from Tallie. And you need tell her nothing; she will not question you. Between ourselves; is it not so? Yes; that is best. For the present. I will come again, later--I have guests, a guest, you see. Rest here, my Karen." She moved towards the door. Karen looked after her. An intolerable fear pressed on her. She could not bear, in her physical weakness, to be left alone with it. "Tante!" she exclaimed. Madame von Marwitz turned. "My child?" "Tante--you are glad to have me back?" Her pride broke in a sob. She hid her face in her hands. Madame von Marwitz returned to the bed. "Glad, my child?" she said. "For all the sorrow that it means? and to know that I am the cause? How can I be glad for my child's unhappiness?" She spoke with a touch of severity, as though in Karen's tears she felt an unexpressed accusation. "Not for that," Karen spoke with difficulty. "But to have me with you again. It will not be a trouble?" There was a little silence and then, her severity passing to melancholy reproof, Madame von Marwitz said: "Did we not, long since, speak of this, Karen? Have you forgotten? Can you so wound me once again? Only my child's grief can excuse her. It is a sorrow to see your life in ruins; I had hoped before I died to see it joyous and secure. It is a sorrow to know that you have maimed yourself; that you are tied to an unworthy man. But how could it be a trouble to me to have you with me? It is a consolation--my only consolation in this calamity. With me you shall find peace and happiness again." She laid her hand on Karen's head. Karen put her hand to her lips.