"What can be the matter with you, child?" asked the Marquise. "Why are
you sitting up so late? And why, in the first place, are you crying
alone, at your age?"

Without further ceremony she sat down beside her niece, her eyes the
while devouring the unfinished letter.

"Were you writing to your husband?"

"Do I know where he is?" returned the Countess.

Her aunt thereupon took up the sheet and proceeded to read it. She had
brought her spectacles; the deed was premeditated. The innocent writer
of the letter allowed her to take it without the slightest remark. It
was neither lack of dignity nor consciousness of secret guilt which
left her thus without energy. Her aunt had come in upon her at a
crisis. She was helpless; right or wrong, reticence and confidence,
like all things else, were matters of indifference. Like some young
maid who had heaped scorn upon her lover, and feels so lonely and sad
when evening comes, that she longs for him to come back or for a heart
to which she can pour out her sorrow, Julie allowed her aunt to
violate the seal which honor places upon an open letter, and sat
musing while the Marquise read on:--

"MY DEAR LOUISA,--Why do you ask so often for the fulfilment of as
rash a promise as two young and inexperienced girls could make?
You say that you often ask yourself why I have given no answer to
your questions for these six months. If my silence told you
nothing, perhaps you will understand the reasons for it to-day, as