"I thought of you," he said; "I should have liked to write." "Well, in the future do, please, when you feel like it." Mrs. Archinard was extended on the sofa in the drawing-room when they reached the Rue Pierre Charron. The crisp daintiness of pseudo-invalidism had withered to a look of sickly convalescence. She was much faded, and her little air of melancholy affectation pitifully fretful. "You come before my own daughter, Peter," she said; "I don't _blame_ Katherine, since Hilda tells me that she did not let her know of my dangerous condition." "Not _dangerous_, mamma," Hilda said, with a patient firmness not untouched by resentment, a touch to Odd most new and pleasing. "The doctor had perfect confidence in me, and would have told me. I should have sent for papa and Katherine the moment he thought it advisable. Under the circumstances they could have done nothing for you that I did not do." Hilda had, indeed, rather distorted facts to shield Katherine. What would Mrs. Archinard have said had she known that Katherine, in answer to a letter begging her to return, had replied that she _could_ not? Even in Hilda's charitable heart that "_could_ not" had rankled. Odd's despairing gloom discerned something of this truth, as he realized that the uncharacteristic self-justification was prompted by a rebellion against misinterpretation before _him_. Mrs. Archinard showed some nervous surprise. "Very well, very well, Hilda," she said, "I am sure I ask no sacrifices on _my_ account. One may die alone as one has lived--alone. My life has trained me in stoicism. You had better wash your face, Hilda. There is a great smudge of charcoal on your cheek," and, as Hilda turned and walked out, "I have looked on the face of the King of Terrors, Peter. Peter! dear old homely name! the faithful ring in it! It is easy for Hilda to talk! I make no complaint. She has nursed me excellently well--as far as her nursing went. But she has a _hard_ soul! no tenderness! no sympathy! To leave her dying mother every afternoon! To sacrifice me to her _painting_! At such a time! Ah me!" Large tears rolled down Mrs. Archinard's cheeks, and her voice trembled with weakness and self-pity. Odd, in his raging resentment, could have exploded the truth upon her; the tears arrested his impulse, and he sat moodily gazing at the floor. Mrs. Archinard raised her lace-edged handkerchief and delicately touched away the tears.