Julie's friends often found her absorbed in prolonged musings; the
less clairvoyant among them would jestingly ask her what she was
thinking about, as if a young wife would think of nothing but
frivolity, as if there were not almost always a depth of seriousness
in a mother's thoughts. Unhappiness, like great happiness, induces
dreaming. Sometimes as Julie played with her little Helene, she would
gaze darkly at her, giving no reply to the childish questions in which
a mother delights, questioning the present and the future as to the
destiny of this little one. Then some sudden recollection would bring
back the scene of the review at the Tuileries and fill her eyes with
tears. Her father's prophetic warnings rang in her ears, and
conscience reproached her that she had not recognized its wisdom. Her
troubles had all come of her own wayward folly, and often she knew not
which among so many were the hardest to bear. The sweet treasures of
her soul were unheeded, and not only so, she could never succeed in
making her husband understand her, even in the commonest everyday
things. Just as the power to love developed and grew strong and
active, a legitimate channel for the affections of her nature was
denied her, and wedded love was extinguished in grave physical and
mental sufferings. Add to this that she now felt for her husband that
pity closely bordering upon contempt, which withers all affection at
last. Even if she had not learned from conversations with some of her
friends, from examples in life, from sundry occurrences in the great
world, that love can bring ineffable bliss, her own wounds would have
taught her to divine the pure and deep happiness which binds two
kindred souls each to each.

In the picture which her memory traced of the past, Arthur's frank
face stood out daily nobler and purer; it was but a flash, for upon
that recollection she dared not dwell. The young Englishman's shy,