The smile she brought to Esperance's lips chased away the nebulous uncertainties, and so she wrote her letter to her dear little "Countess-mama," as she had called her since her engagement. When her mother came with the philosopher's message and saw the letter, she was delighted with the phrasing and thanked her daughter warmly for the joy it would give her father. "Ah! mama, I believe that I am the happiest of the three Darbois, dear ridiculous mama!" And she gave her a quick embrace. Life was again travelling the simple, daily country round. It was after lunch, three days after Esperance had written her letter. "Why so pensive, little daughter? Where were your thoughts?" Esperance jumped up at this question from her father. "I was dreaming. I am so sorry. I was in Belgium, near the Countess Styvens when my letter would be brought in to her, for, as nearly as I can make out, it ought to arrive to-day." "No," said M. Darbois, "that letter has not been delivered; it is still in my desk." Their faces expressed the great astonishment that they felt. "You did not like it, papa?" "Very much, very much. It is quite good--and--and pathetic." "Then, darling papa?" "I want to talk with you a little more before you send it." Everyone drank their coffee a little quicker, and five minutes later François found himself alone with his daughter. Even Mme. Darbois had withdrawn, afraid that she might show her own anxiety too much. "I am listening to you, papa." "You are going to answer my questions with perfect frankness, Esperance?" "Yes, father." "Had you thought of writing to Countess Styvens before you read that letter?" He drew the Academician's letter from his portfolio and placed it before her. "No, father, dear." "Then it was on my account, and to facilitate my admittance to the Academy, that you wrote?" "Oh! no," replied Esperance quickly, "I would not do you that injustice, knowing how much you love me, and knowing the purity of your heart, the nobility of your ambition. I am sacrificing what I believe, perhaps wrongly, to be my happiness, to the demands of a misunderstanding world. I knew, when I read that letter, that I had no right to drag a man of your merit, my dear mother, and all the family, into the troubles of a life in which they have no real interest. I did not want you to have the sympathy of the world. Sympathy is too often akin to scorn!" François would have spoken, but Esperance interrupted him. "Oh! father darling. You are so good. Don't torment me further, send the letter. I am still so new to this role. I need your sincere, your constant help." Just then Marguerite came in and handed the philosopher a letter, bearing an armorial seal, which had just come from Palais. He quickly opened it, seemed surprised and passed it to his daughter.