"Her father approves?" said this sad-faced, gray-haired woman.
"Oh no; quite the contrary."
"But he is kind to her?" she said, quickly, and anxiously.
"Oh yes," he answered. "No doubt he is kind to her. Who could be
otherwise?"
She had been so agitated at the beginning of this interview that she had
allowed her visitor to remain standing. She now asked him to be seated,
and took a chair opposite to him. Her nervousness had in a measure
disappeared; though at times she clasped the fingers of both hands
together, as if to force herself to be composed.
"You will tell me all about it, monsieur; that I may know what to say
when I speak to my child at last. Ah, heavens, if you could understand
how full my heart is: sixteen years of silence! Think what a mother has
to say to her only child after that time! It was cruel--cruel--cruel!"
A little convulsive sob was the only sign of her emotion, and the
lingers were clasped together.
"Pardon me, madame," said he, with some hesitation; "but, you see, I do
not know the circumstances--"
"You do not know why I dared not speak to my own daughter?" she said,
looking up in surprise.
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