“What is it that you wish me to do then? Give you a good character when you leave, that you may deceive some other woman?” inquired Mrs. de Vere, angrily. “You will keep me in your service, please,” was the unblushing reply. “As the price of your silence?” “As you please, madame,” with a mocking courtesy; and Mrs. de Vere now realized fully that from henceforth Finette was the mistress, herself the slave. Her secret had placed her entirely at the unscrupulous woman’s mercy. With a sinking heart she cried: “What am I to tell my husband?” “Say that Finette begged a thousand pardons, wept, tore her hair, refused to be comforted until you promised to forgive her and try her again.” Mrs. de Vere could not repress a slight smile at the cool impudence of the creature. “Stay, then, and try to hold your tongue in future,” she said, ungraciously, and Finette pretended the most abject gratitude, ending with: “After all, dear madame, what could you do without your poor Finette? Who could dress you so as to set off to the best advantage your exquisite face?” Mrs. de Vere knew that Finette spoke the truth. If she had sent her away she would have sorely missed her, but she was too angry and too humiliated to own her dependence. She waved her hand without reply, and swept down-stairs in search of her husband. He was waiting for her in the breakfast-room. She went up to him and said: “I find it impossible to get rid of that treacherous Finette. She has begged a thousand pardons, and entreated me to try her again. After all, Norman, I could not do any better if I sent her away. Another servant would be just as deceitful, and would not have the advantage that Finette has of knowing all my ways.” “Please yourself,” he answered, a little coldly. CHAPTER VIII. The entrance of a servant with breakfast hindered further conversation. They took their places, and Mrs. de Vere poured her husband’s coffee. She saw him glance inquiringly at his mother’s vacant chair, and said, carelessly: “Mrs. de Vere sleeps late this morning.” A thought of little Sweetheart came to both, but neither uttered it aloud. Last night they had patched up a weak fabric of peace, and both shrunk from the mention of the child’s name. But Norman de Vere remembered that he had kept his mother awake so late last night that she was tired and weary this morning; so, without any uneasiness over her absence, he finished his breakfast and followed his wife out into the beautiful grounds. She, with the guilty consciousness upon her that as soon as he returned to the house he must find out the absence of his protégée, detained him as long as she could, winding about him anew the siren fetters in which she had bound him two years ago. “Oh, Camille! how charming you are to-day!” he cried. “You make me almost forget last night. Oh, if only--” He paused and sighed. “If only what?” she asked, with a slight frown.