Dread of her answer made my voice falter; I knelt down before her as I used to do when a child, and, taking both her hands, I covered them with kisses. Again, at this solemn hour, my lips were met by that golden wedding-ring which I hated like a living person; yet the feeling did not hinder me from speaking to her almost childishly. "Ah," I said, "you have troubles, and to whom should you tell them if not to me? Where will you find any one to love you more? Be good to me," I went on; "do you not feel how dear you are to me?" She bent her head twice, made a sign that she could not speak, and burst into painful sobs. "Has your trouble anything to do with me?" I asked. She shook her head as an emphatic negative, and then said in a half stifled voice, while she smoothed my hair with her hands, as she used to do in the old times: "You are very nice to me, my André." How simple those few words were, and yet they caught my heart and gripped it as a hand might do. How had I longed for some of those little words which she had never uttered, some of those gracious phrases which are like the gestures of the mind, some of her involuntary tender caresses. Now I had what I had so earnestly desired, but at what a moment and by what means! It was, nevertheless, very sweet to feel that she loved me. I told her so, employing words which scorched my lips, so that I might be kind to her. "Is our dear invalid worse?" "No, he is better. He is resting now," she answered, pointing in the direction of my stepfather's room. "Mother, speak to me," I urged, "trust yourself to me; let me grieve with you, perhaps I may help you. It is so cruel for me that I must take you by surprise in order to see your tears." I went on, pressing her by my questions and my complaining. What then did I hope to tear from those lips which quivered but yet kept silence? At any price I would know; I was in no state to endure fresh mysteries, and I was certain that my stepfather was somehow concerned in this inexplicable trouble, for it was only he and I who so deeply moved that woman's heart of hers. She was not thus troubled on account of me, she had just told me so; the cause of her grief must have reference to him, and it was not his health. Had she too made any discovery? Had the terrible suspicion crossed her mind also? At the mere idea a burning fever seized upon me; I insisted and insisted again. I felt that she was yielding, if it were only by the leaning of her head towards me, the passing of her trembling hand over my hair, and the quickening of her breath. "If I were sure," said she at length, "that this secret would die with you and me." "Oh! mother!" I exclaimed, in so reproachful a tone that the blood flew to her cheeks. Perhaps this little betrayal of shame decided her, she pressed a lingering kiss on my forehead, as though she would have effaced the frown which her unjust distrust had set there.