This reproach was manifestly unjust. Although not far-sighted, Blanche Vernier possessed that instinct of the heart which penetrates the hidden causes of our acts or our feelings--Divining her friend's emotion, she bore this absurd accusation without defending herself. Elizabeth trembled at the thought that she might have met her husband, not knowing in her confusion whether she regretted or dreaded this meeting. "Listen," she said in a softer voice. "Go to the children and send Marie Louise to me." A few minutes later, the little girl came in, not with her nose in the air and a bright face, with the dancing step with which she shook her blonde curls as she tripped through the house, but instead with a stiff walk and lowered eyes. Her mother drew her towards her too jealously and held her arms-- "Look at me!" As the child hesitated in her embarrassment, Elizabeth who was very nervous, grew angry. "But look at me--whom did you meet on the road?" Marie Louise who did not know how to tell a lie, nevertheless answered: "Nobody." "Nobody? How can you deceive your mother. That is bad. That is naughty." The little girl who was bravely holding her own against this threatening tone, weakened before this outburst of sorrow. And then, it became great news to announce-- "Well, yes, we met papa." "Why did you not tell me when you came back?" "I don't know, Mamma." "Did he say you were not to tell?" "Oh, no." "You should have no secrets from your mother." The child began to cry, and had to be consoled--Her silence which she could not explain, was the mysterious intuition of the divorce of her parents, whom she had to love separately without the knowledge of either of them, for fear of hurting them. She could not think that she might have both a father and mother at the same time like her little friends--And yet both were alive--The meeting that afternoon had settled all doubts concerning the existence of her father, whom she never saw, and about whom she had even heard it said that he was dead to her. But these complications put her in a state of uneasiness which wearied one of her age. Elizabeth continued her questions more tenderly this time: "You recognized him at once?" "I did not look at him when he passed us--but afterwards he called me...." "He called you?" "Yes, then I knew him." "Tell me about it, dearie." "He called: 'Marie Louise.' I raised my head and I ran. When I was quite near him I cried, 'Papa.' He held me so tight that I choked--and he wet my cheeks because he was crying. Why, Mamma?" "He was touched at seeing you after such a long time." Marie Louise seemed to reflect. "Why didn't he come home before? He said to me, 'And Philippe?' So I called 'Philippe!' Philippe came, but he said, 'Who is that?' I said, 'It's papa.' Then Mme. Blanche came up too. They quarreled." "Quarreled?" "No, not quarreled, but they looked at each other crossly. Then papa went away." Elizabeth overcame her hesitation and again asked: