ven say
when you were coming back."

Madame von Marwitz kept silence for some moments after this, savouring
perhaps in the words--though Karen's eyes, in speaking them, had also
filled with tears--some hint of resistance. She looked away from the
girl, keeping her hand in hers, as she said: "I could not come. I could
not tell you when I was to come. There were reasons that bound me; ties;
claims; a tangle of troubled human lives--the threads passing through my
fingers. No; I was not free; and there I would have had you trust me.
No, no, my Karen, we will speak of it no farther. I understand young
hearts--they are forgetful; they cannot dwell on the shadowed places.
Let us put it aside, the great grief. What surprises me is to find that
the littlest, littlest ones cling so closely. I am foolish, Karen. I
have had much to bear lately, and I cannot shake off the little griefs.
That others than myself should have chosen my child's trousseau; oh, it
is small--so very small a thing; yet it hurts; it hurts. That the joy of
seeking all the pretty clothes together--that, that, too, should have
been taken from me. Do not weep, child."

"Tante, you could not come, and the things had to be made ready. They
all--Mrs. Forrester--Betty--seemed to feel there was no time to lose.
And I have always chosen my own clothes; I did not know that you would
feel this so."

"Betty? Who is Betty?" Madame von Marwitz mournfully yet alertly
inquired.

"Lady Jardine, Gregory's sister-in-law. You remember, Tante, I have
written of her. She has been so kind."

"Betty," Madame von Marwitz repeated, sadly. "Yes, I remember; she was
at your wedding, I think. There, dry your eyes, child. I understand. It
is a loving heart, but it forgot. The sad old Tante was crowded out by
new friends--new joys."

"No, you must not say that, Tante. It is not true."

The hardness that Madame von Marwitz knew how to interpret was showing
itself on Karen's face, despite the tears. Her guardian rose, passing
her arm around her shoulders. "It is not true, then, _cherie_. When one
is very sad one is foolish. Ah, I know it; one imagines too quickly
things that are not true. They float and then they cling, like the tiny
barbed down of the thistle, and then, behold, one's brain is choked with
thorny weeds. That is how it comes, my Karen. Forgive me. There; kiss
me."

"Darling Tante," Karen murmured, clasping her closely. "Nothing, nothing
crowded you out. Nothing could