treasuring it as one treasures a relic. It is true that she passed whole
hours seated at her piano running her fingers up and down the keys,
playing Adrian Baker's favorite airs, which he himself had taught her. But
except this, Berta lived like other girls; she had an excellent appetite
and she slept the tranquil sleep of a happy heart. She spent the usual
time at her toilet table and she took pleasure in making herself
beautiful. Some of the asperities of her character had become softened;
she spoke with all her natural vivacity, and, finally, she never mentioned
Adrian Baker's name.

Her father and her nurse observed all this and deduced as a consequence
that the traveller had left no trace in Berta's heart. Only one fear
troubled them,--the fear that he would return.

In this way another month passed, and the memory of Adrian Baker began to
wear away; if his name was sometimes mentioned, it was as one evokes the
memory of a dream.

The dream, however, at times assumed the aspect of an impending reality.
He might return, and beyond a doubt he had not intended to remain away for
ever; his last farewell had not been an eternal one. If he himself was on
the other side of the ocean, three thousand miles away, that is, in New
York, at the other end of the earth, more, in the other world, his house
was there, opposite them, open, kept by his servants with the same luxury
and the same pomp as before he had gone away; his house that seemed like
an enchanted palace waiting for its owner; and the order and care with
which everything was conducted in it indicated that the servants did not
wish to be surprised by the sudden appearance of their master; that is to
say, that Adrian Baker might return at any moment. The plants on the
terrace spread their branches as full of life as if they were tended by