appreciating the wisdom of the words she heard, and very much dismayed
to find what this relative, out of great experience, passed judgment
upon Victor as her father had done, though in somewhat milder terms.
Perhaps some quick prevision of the future crossed her mind;
doubtless, at any rate, she felt the heavy weight of the burden which
must inevitably overwhelm her, for she burst into tears, and sprang to
the old lady's arms. "Be my mother," she sobbed.

The aunt shed no tears. The Revolution had left old ladies of the
Monarchy but few tears to shed. Love, in bygone days, and the Terror
at a later time, had familiarized them with extremes of joy and
anguish in such a sort that, amid the perils of life, they preserved
their dignity and coolness, a capacity for sincere but undemonstrative
affection which never disturbed their well-bred self-possession, and a
dignity of demeanor which a younger generation has done very ill to
discard.

The dowager took Julie in her arms, and kissed her on the forehead
with a tenderness and pity more often found in women's ways and manner
than in their hearts. Then she coaxed her niece with kind, soothing
words, assured her of a happy future, lulled her with promises of
love, and put her to bed as if she had been not a niece, but a
daughter, a much-beloved daughter whose hopes and cares she had made
her own. Perhaps the old Marquise had found her own youth and
inexperience and beauty again in this nephew's wife. And the Countess
fell asleep, happy to have found a friend, nay a mother, to whom she
could tell everything freely.

Next morning, when the two women kissed each other with heartfelt
kindness, and that look of intelligence which marks a real advance in