she grew older it had seemed mere loyalty to accept the fact without
asking why; she had perhaps not wanted to know why. But now, she saw, she
was to hear.

"Mathilde, do you still love your father?"

"I think I do, Mama. I feel very sorry for him."

"Why?"

"I don't know why. I dare say he is happy."

"I dare say he is, poor Joe." Adelaide paused. "Well, my dear, that was
the reason of our parting. One can pity a son or a brother, but not a
husband. Weakness kills love. A woman cannot be the leader, the guide,
and keep any romance. O Mathilde, I never want you to feel the
humiliation of finding yourself stronger than the man you love. That is
why I left your father, and my justification is his present happiness.
This inferior little person he has married, she does as well. Any one
would have done as well."

Mathilde was puzzled by her mother's evident conviction that the
explanation was complete. She asked after a moment:

"But what was it that made you think at first that you did love
him, Mama?"

"Just what makes you think you love this boy--youth, flattery, desire to
love. He was magnificently handsome, your father. I saw him admired by
other men, apparently a master; I was too young to judge, my dear. You