“You mean when your brother was sick?” said Madame de Mirfleur. “You would not like him to be ill again, chérie. They are like that, ma Reine--unkind, cruel, except when they want _us_, and then we must not be absent for a moment. But, Reine, I hope thou art not so foolish as to expect sense from a boy; they are not like us; they have no understanding; and if thou wouldst be a woman, not always a child, thou must learn to support it, and say nothing. Come, my most dear, my toilette is made, and thy eyes are not so red, after all--eyes of blue do not show like the others. Come, and we will say bon jour to the cousin, who will think it strange to see neither you nor me.” “Stop--stop but one moment, mamma,” cried Reine. She caught her mother’s dress, and her hand, and held her fast. The girl was profoundly excited, her eyes were not red, but blazing, and her tears dried. She had been tried beyond her powers of bearing. “Mamma,” she cried, “I want to go home with you--take me with you! If I have been impatient, forgive me. I will try to do better, indeed I will. You love me a little--oh, I know only a little, not as I want you to love me! But I should be good; I should try to please you and--every one, ma mère! Take me home with you!” “Reine, chérie! Yes, my most dear, if you wish it. We will talk of it after. You excite yourself; you make yourself unhappy, my child.” “No, no, no,” she cried; “it is not I. I never should have dreamed of it, that Herbert could think me a burden, think me intrusive, interfering, disagreeable! I cannot bear it! Ah, perhaps it is my fault that people are so unkind! Perhaps I am what he says. But, mamma, I will be different with you. Take me with you. I will be your maid, your bonne, anything! only don’t leave me here!” “My Reine,” said Madame de Mirfleur, touched, but somewhat embarrassed, “you shall go with me, do not doubt it--if it pleases you to go. You are my child as much as Babette, and I love you just the same. A mother has not one measure of love for one and another for another. Do not think it, chérie. You shall go with me if you wish it, but you must not be so angry with Herbert. What are men? I have told you often they are not like us; they seek what they like, and their own way, and their own pleasures; in short, they are fools, as the selfish always are. Herbert is ungrateful to thee for giving up thy youth to him, and thy brightest years; but he is not so unkind as he seems--that which he said is not what he thinks. You must forgive him, ma Reine; he is ungrateful--” “Do I wish him to be grateful?” said the girl. “If one gives me a flower, I am grateful, or a glass of water; but gratitude--from Herbert--to me! Do not let us talk of it, for I cannot bear it. But since he does not want me, and finds me a trouble--mother, mother, take me home with you!”