occasion for a moment she lost control of herself, and when, after a
perceptible pause, Vere said, "I know I love it," and was silent, she
exclaimed:

"Keep your secrets, Vere. Every one has a right to their freedom."

"But, Madre--" Vere began, startled by her mother's abrupt vehemence.

"No, Vere, no! My child, my dearest one, never tell me anything but of
your own accord, out of your own heart and desire. Such a confidence
is beautiful. But anything else--anything else, I could not bear from
you."

And she got up and left the room, walking with a strange slowness, as
if she put upon herself an embargo not to hasten.

The words and--specially that--the way in which they were spoken made
Vere suddenly and completely aware of something that perhaps she had
already latently known--that the relation between her mother and
herself had, of late, not been quite what once it was. At moments she
had felt almost shy of her mother, only at moments. Formerly she had
always told her mother everything, and had spoken--as her mother had
just said--out of her own heart and desire, with eagerness,
inevitably. Now--well, now she could not always do that. Was it
because she was growing older? Children are immensely frank. She had
been a child. But now--she thought of the Marchesino, of Peppina, of
her conversation with Monsieur Emile in the Grotto of Virgilio, and
realized the blooming of her girlhood, was aware that she was
changing. And she felt half frightened, then eager, ardently eager. An
impulse filled her, the impulse towards a fulness of life that, till