"You see, I am not going to lose any time," she said, closing the book. "Ah! mama, how happy I am, how happy!" "Quick," said her mother, her finger to her lips. "Your father is waiting for us, ready to go out." Esperance seized her hat and coat quickly and ran to join her father. He was sitting as if thinking, his head resting in his hands. She understood the struggle between love and reason in his soul, and her upright little soul suffered with his. Bending gently beside him she murmured, "Do not be unhappy, papa. You know that I can never suffer as long as I have you two. If I am quite mistaken, if life doesn't bring me any of the things that I expect, I shall find comfort in your love." François Darbois raised his head and looked deep into the lovely eyes, "God keep you, my little daughter!" Next morning Esperance was ready to go to the Conservatoire long before the appointed hour. M. Darbois was already in his study with one of his pupils, so she ran to her mother's room and found her busy with some papers. "You have my birth certificate?" "Yes, yes." "And papa's written consent?" "Yes, yes," sighed Madame Darbois. "He hesitated to give it to you?" "Oh! no, you know your father! His word is sacred, but it cost him a great deal. My dear little girl, never let him regret it." Esperance put her finger across her mother's lips. "Mama, you know that I am honest and honourable, how can I help it when I am the child of two darlings as good as you and papa? My longing for the theatre is stronger than I can tell. I believe that if papa had refused his permission, it would have made me unhappy and that I should have fallen ill and pined away. You remember how, about a year ago, I almost died of anaemia and consumption. Really, mother dear, my illness was simply caused by my overstrung nerves. I had often heard papa express his disapproval of the theatre; and you, you remember, said one day, in reference to the suicide of a well-known actress, 'Ah, her poor mother, God keep me from seeing my daughter on the stage!'" Madame Darbois was silent for a moment; then two tears rolled quietly from beneath her eyelids and a little sob escaped her. "Ah! mama, mama," cried Esperance, "have pity, don't let me see you suffer so. I feared it; I did not want to be sure of it. I am an ungrateful daughter. You love me so much! You have indulged me so! I ought to give in. I can not, and your grief will kill me. I suffered so yesterday, out driving, feeling papa so far away. I kept feeling as if he were holding himself aloof in an effort to forget, and now you are crying.... Mama, it is terrible! I must make myself give you back your happiness--at least your peace of mind. Alas!--I can not give you back your happiness, for I think that I shall die if I cannot have my way."