ifulness as a punishment, and found excuses for her daughter in the
will of Heaven, that so she still might adore the hand that smote her.

All these things passed through her memory that morning, and each
recollection wounded her afresh so sorely, that with a very little
additional pain her brimming cup of bitterness must have overflowed. A
cold look might kill her.

The little details of domestic life are difficult to paint; but one or
two perhaps will suffice to give an idea of the rest.

The Marquise d'Aiglemont, for instance, had grown rather deaf, but she
could never induce Moina to raise her voice for her. Once, with the
naivete of suffering, she had begged Moina to repeat some remark which
she had failed to catch, and Moina obeyed, but with so bad a grace, the
Mme. d'Aiglemont had never permitted herself to make her modest request
again. Ever since that day when Moina was talking or retailing a
piece of news, her mother was careful to come near to listen; but this
infirmity of deafness appeared to put the Countess out of patience,
and she would grumble thoughtlessly about it. This instance is one
from among very many that must have gone to the mother's heart; and yet
nearly all of them might have escaped a close observer, they consisted
in faint shades of manner invisible to any but a woman's eyes. Take
another example. Mme. d'Aiglemont happened to say one day that the
Princesse de Cadignan had called upon her. "Did she come to see _you_!"
Moina exclaimed. That was all, but the Countess' voice and manner
expressed surprise and well-bred contempt in semitones. Any heart,
still young and sensitive, might well have applauded the philanthropy of
savage tribes who kill off their old people when they grow too feeble
to cling to a strongly shaken bough. Mme. d'Aiglemont rose smiling, and
went away to weep alone.

Well-bred people, and women especially, only betray their feelings
by imperceptible touches; but those who can look back over their own
experience on such bruises as this mother's heart received, know also
how the heart-strings vibrate to these light touches. Overcome by her
memories, Mme. d'Aiglemont recollected one of those microscopically
small things, so stinging and so painful was it that never till this
moment had she felt all the heartless contempt that lurked beneath
smiles.

At the sound of shutters thrown back at her daughter's windows, she
dried her tears, and hastened up the pathway by the rai