n a woman's soul.

"Hector!" she said, "are you come back to us? Has God taken pity on
our family?"

"Dear Adeline," replied the Baron, coming in and seating his wife by
his side on a couch, "you are the saintliest creature I ever knew; I
have long known myself to be unworthy of you."

"You would have very little to do, my dear," said she, holding Hulot's
hand and trembling so violently that it was as though she had a palsy,
"very little to set things in order--"

She dared not proceed; she felt that every word would be a reproof,
and she did not wish to mar the happiness with which this meeting was
inundating her soul.

"It is Hortense who has brought me here," said Hulot. "That child may
do us far more harm by her hasty proceeding than my absurd passion for
Valerie has ever done. But we will discuss all this to-morrow morning.
Hortense is asleep, Mariette tells me; we will not disturb her."

"Yes," said Madame Hulot, suddenly plunged into the depths of grief.

She understood that the Baron's return was prompted not so much by the
wish to see his family as by some ulterior interest.

"Leave her in peace till to-morrow," said the mother. "The poor child
is in a deplorable condition; she has been crying all day."

At nine the next morning, the Baron, awaiting his daughter, whom he
had sent for, was pacing the large, deserted drawing-room, trying to
find arguments by which to conquer the most difficult form of
obstinacy there is to deal with--that of a young wife, offended and
implacable, as blameless youth ever is, in its ignorance of the
disgraceful compromises of the world, of its passions and interests.

"Here I am, papa," said Hortense in a tremulous voice, and looking
pale from her miseries.

Hulot, sitting down, took his daughter round the waist, and drew her
down to sit on his knee.

"Well, my child," said he, kissing her forehead, "so there are
troubles at home, and you have been hasty and headstrong? That is not
like a well-bred child. My Hortense ought not to have taken such a
decisive step as that of leaving her house and deserting her husband
on her own account, and without consulting her parents. If my darling
girl had come to see her kind and admirable mother, she would not have
given me this cruel pain I feel!--You do not know the world; it is
malignantly spiteful. People will perhaps say that your husband sent
you back to your parents. Children brought up as you were, on your
mother's l