of Louis Quinze; but a few hours later she discovered, or,
more properly speaking, guessed, the not uncommon state of affairs, and
the real cause of her niece's low spirits.

Julie turned thoughtful on a sudden, and went to her room earlier than
usual. When her maid left her for the night, she still sat by the fire
in the yellow velvet depths of a great chair, an old-world piece of
furniture as well suited for sorrow as for happy people. Tears flowed,
followed by sighs and meditation. After a while she drew a little table
to her, sought writing materials, and began to write. The hours went by
swiftly. Julie's confidences made to the sheet of paper seemed to cost
her dear; every sentence set her dreaming, and at last she suddenly
burst into tears. The clocks were striking two. Her head, grown heavy as
a dying woman's, was bowed over her breast. When she raised it, her
aunt appeared before her as suddenly as if she had stepped out of the
background of tapestry upon the walls.

"What can be the matter with you, child?" asked the Marquise. "Why are
you sitting up so late? And why, in the first place, are you crying
alone, at your age?"

Without further ceremony she sat down beside her niece, her eyes the
while devouring the unfinished letter.

"Were you writing to your husband?"

"Do I know where he is?" returned the Countess.

Her aunt thereupon took up the sheet and proceeded to read it. She had
brought her spectacles; the deed was premeditated. The innocent writer
of the letter allowed her to take it without the slightest remark. It
was neither lack of dignity nor consciousness of secret guilt which left
her thus without energy. Her aunt had come in upon her at a crisis. She
was helpless; right or wrong, reticence and confidence, like all things
else, were matters of indifference. Like some young maid who had heaped
scorn upon her lover, and feels so lonely and sad when evening comes,
that she longs for him to come back or for a heart to which she can pour
out her sorrow, Julie allowed her aunt to violate the seal which honor
places upon an open letter, and sat musing while the Marquise read on:--

"MY DEAR LOUISA,--Why do you ask so often for the fulfilment of as
rash a promise as two young and inexperienced girls could make?
You say that you often ask yourself why I have given no answer to
your questions for these six months. If my silence told you
nothing, perhaps you will understand the reasons for i