“Poor little one!--How lonely she must be! I wish we could bring her here. _You_ would comfort her, Clémence.” Ivan paused; then resumed, with a slight touch of uneasiness in his voice, “M’amie, will it trouble you if a friend comes to visit us to-night?” A look of pain passed swiftly over the face of Clémence. The sorrowing heart is prone to shrink within itself, and to dread the first breath of outer air, the first touch of common life. “Not if it is only an intimate friend,” she said at last, “such as M. Tolstoi or M. Adrian Wertsch; but I should not quite care to see a stranger, Ivan.” “It is no stranger; it is one whom we both love.” Then he returned rather nervously to the subject of the letters, asking what would become of Stéphanie. “For the present she is to be sent to the pension where her cousin Coralie is,” Clémence answered. “Her uncle, who is now her guardian, appears to wish it, and she herself is indifferent. La Tante has not been very well of late, Ivan; she seems to be in low spirits, but I am thankful to say she is becoming reconciled to Henri’s change; and he, for his part, writes very cheerfully. The best judges in the profession he has adopted think highly of his talent. He has just gained some prize for a design;--but I have not yet finished reading his letter.” So they talked on, until at last Ivan suggested preparations for tea, and rather to the surprise of Clémence interested himself in them in a way quite foreign to his usual habits. She only looked at him wonderingly, and with a little amusement, as he arranged and rearranged the tea-table; but when he actually began to make inquiries about the quality of the beverage itself, her eyes, so lately tearful, sparkled into a smile as she asked,-- “When did _you_ become a connoisseur in these things, Ivan? I thought the difference between tea and coffee was the extent of your knowledge on the subject.” Ivan, instead of answering, kissed her; then taking a white camellia from a vase on the table, he fastened it at the throat of her plain black dress. “My Clémence must look her best to receive the Emperor,” he said. “The _Emperor_!” she cried in dismay. “Oh, Ivan, why did you not tell me?” Before he could reply a sledge stopped at the door, and Ivan hastened down to welcome his guest. Clémence had scarcely recovered her composure when the Emperor entered the room, saying pleasantly,-- “I must make my apologies to Madame la Princesse for inviting myself. Prince Ivan Ivanovitch is responsible: he gave me permission to take you by surprise, and promised me a welcome.” The promised welcome was given by Clémence, very gracefully and cordially, in spite of a little tremulousness in her voice and nervousness in her manner. One gentle, significant word of sympathy for her sorrow was spoken; then, all ceremony being waived, they took their seats together at the table, the Emperor declining the “fauteuil” Ivan placed for him, and choosing an ordinary chair instead.