“I should dream that I was his--you know whom I mean--and had no more ardent wish than to make life, hitherto so hard to him, sweet and beautiful. At his side I would grow wise, and clever, and better day by day. Every breath I drew would be a song of praise to him. Did, however, so strange a thing happen that he could ever do anything my conscience did not approve, I would tell it him, frankly, freely. I would shrink from no pain; for he would be there to bear it with me, and its burden would be lightened. What pain could come to me, so long as I was his, and his love mine?” “Yes,” said Elizabeth, in a low, stifled voice; “yes.” “That is what my dream is like--the purest bliss. But the reality is horror--horror, Elizabeth! You have utterly crushed me. That miserable compromise; that mean-spirited subjection in order to preserve the outward appearance of unity while hiding the inward disunion--I could not do it. And you----” A horrible thought had flashed across me; I bent down and looked into her face; it was bathed in tears. “Can you do it, my darling?” I said, sinking on my knees, and embracing her. She pressed me convulsively, and agonizing sobs shook her breast, as she answered: “I have learned to do it!” For a time we preserved deep silence. When at length I raised my eyes to her dear face, it wore its accustomed look of composure. She rose. “Come with me to our parents, child,” she said. “I cannot help you to the realization of your dream; but you shall not be sacrificed.” * * * * * Mamma was sitting in the corner of the sofa, knitting. Mme. Duphot was reading aloud to her, Ozanani’s “Poëtas Francis Caius.” “May we come in, mamma? We want to speak to you.” Without looking up, mamma answered: “Please let us just finish the chapter. Sit down, girls.” We sat down, and Mme. Duphot finished the beautiful legend of the Holy Francis and Wolf von Gubio. Then placing her book, over which she had several times hurriedly glanced at me, on the table, she rose. I caught her hand. “Stay!” I whispered to her; and Elizabeth hurriedly joined in. “Stay, dear Duphot, we count upon your help. We want papa here, too, as well. May I send to ask him to come, mamma?” “Yes, ask him to come.” Dear mamma! so unsuspectingly and peacefully going on with her work, meditating over the sweet teaching of St. Francis. I felt so sorry for her. How gladly would I have spared her the pain I was about to cause her, but--how could I? The door opened. Papa came in, but not alone; my brother was with him. The eyes of both were directed upon me as they came in. “Oh, yes; there she is,” said papa, in a severe, menacing voice.