pitiless--"

"Hush!" said she, laying a finger on his mouth. "Don't you see that I
am in jest."

They had now come back to the drawing-room, and Roger's eye fell on an
object brought home that morning by the cabinetmaker. Caroline's old
rosewood embroidery-frame, by which she and her mother had earned
their bread when they lived in the Rue du Tourniquet-Saint-Jean, had
been refitted and polished, and a net dress, of elaborate design, was
already stretched upon it.

"Well, then, my dear, I shall do some work this evening. As I stitch,
I shall fancy myself gone back to those early days when you used to
pass by me without a word, but not without a glance; the days when the
remembrance of your look kept me awake all night. Oh my dear old frame
--the best piece of furniture in my room, though you did not give it
me!--You cannot think," said she, seating herself on Roger's knees;
for he, overcome by irresistible feelings, had dropped into a chair.
"Listen.--All I can earn by my work I mean to give to the poor. You
have made me rich. How I love that pretty home at Bellefeuille, less
because of what it is than because you gave it me! But tell me, Roger,
I should like to call myself Caroline de Bellefeuille--can I? You must
know: is it legal or permissible?"

As she saw a little affirmative grimace--for Roger hated the name of
Crochard--Caroline jumped for glee, and clapped her hands.

"I feel," said she, "as if I should more especially belong to you.
Usually a woman gives up her own name and takes her husband's--" An