Poor mamma had added a postscript that puzzled Madame greatly, and she came and showed it to me, and asked what I thought she could do about it. It was an entreaty that she might be permitted to come and see me. There was a touching humility in the request that almost choked me with emotion as I read it. “I could come and go unknown and unnoticed,” wrote she. “None of Sir Roger's household have ever seen me, and my visit might pass for the devotion of some old follower of the family, and I will promise not to repeat it.” She urged her plea in the most beseeching terms, and said that she would submit to any conditions if her prayer were only complied with. “I really do not know what to do here,” said Madame to me. “Without your father's concurrence this cannot be done; and who is to ask him for permission?” “Shall I?” “No, no, no,” cried she, rapidly. “Such a step on your part would be ruin; a certain refusal, and ruin to yourself.” “Could Mr. Eccles do it?” “He has no influence whatever.” “Has Captain Hotham?” “Less, if less be possible.” “Mr. Cleremont, then?” “Ah, yes, he might, and with a better chance of success; but--” She stopped, and though I waited patiently, she did not finish her sentence. “But what?” asked I at last. “Gaston hates doing a hazardous thing,” said she; and I remarked that her expression changed, and her face assumed a hard, stern look as she spoke. “His theory is, do nothing without three to one in your favor. He says you 'll always gets these odds, if you only wait.” “But you don't believe that,” cried I, eagerly. “Sometimes--very seldom, that is, I do not whenever I can help it.” There was a long pause now, in which neither of us spoke. At last she said, “I can't aid your mother in this project. She must give it up. There is no saying how your father would resent it.” “And how will you tell her that?” faltered I out. “I can't tell. I'll try and show her the mischief it might bring upon you; and that now, standing high, as you do, in your father's favor, she would never forgive herself, if she were the cause of a change towards you. This consideration will have more weight with her than any that could touch herself personally.” “But it shall not,” cried I, passionately. “Nothing in _my_ fortune shall stand between my mother and her love for me.” She bent down and looked at me with an intensity in her stare that I cannot describe; it was as if, by actual steadfastness, she was able to fix me, and read me in my inmost heart. “From which of your parents, Digby,” said she, slowly, “do you derive this nature?” “I do not know; papa always says I am very like him.” “And do you believe that papa is capable of great self-sacrifice? I mean, would he let his affections lead him against his interests?”