my child's unhappiness?"

She spoke with a touch of severity, as though in Karen's tears she felt
an unexpressed accusation.

"Not for that," Karen spoke with difficulty. "But to have me with you
again. It will not be a trouble?"

There was a little silence and then, her severity passing to melancholy
reproof, Madame von Marwitz said: "Did we not, long since, speak of
this, Karen? Have you forgotten? Can you so wound me once again? Only my
child's grief can excuse her. It is a sorrow to see your life in ruins;
I had hoped before I died to see it joyous and secure. It is a sorrow to
know that you have maimed yourself; that you are tied to an unworthy
man. But how could it be a trouble to me to have you with me? It is a
consolation--my only consolation in this calamity. With me you shall
find peace and happiness again."

She laid her hand on Karen's head. Karen put her hand to her lips.

"There. That is well," said Madame von Marwitz with a sigh, bending to
kiss her. "That is my child. Tante is sad at heart. It is a heavy blow.
But her child is welcome."

When she had gone Karen lay, her face in the billows of the bed, while
she fixed her thoughts on Tante's last words.

They became a sing-song monotone. "Tante is sad at heart. But her child
is welcome. It is a heavy blow. But her child is welcome."

After the anguish there was a certain ease. She rested in the given
reassurance. Yet the sing-song monotone oppressed her.

She felt presently that her hat, wrenched to one side, and still fixed
to her hair by its pins, was hurting her. She unfastened it and dropped
it to the floor. She felt too tired to do more just then.

Soon after this the door opened and Mrs. Talcott appeared carrying a
candle, a can of hot water, towels and sheets.

Karen drew herself up, murmuring some vague words of welcome, and Mrs.
Talcott, after setting the candle on the dressing-table and the hot
water in the basin, remarked: "Just you lie down again, Karen, and let
me wash your face for you. You must be pretty tired and dirty after that
long journey."

But Karen put her feet to the ground. They just sustained her. "Thank
you, Mrs. Talcott. I will do it," she said.

She bent over the water, and, while she washed, Mrs. Talcott, with
deliberate skill, made up the bed. Karen sank in a chair.

"You poor thing," said Mrs. Talcott, turning to her as she smoothed down
the sheet; "Why you're green. Sit right there and I'll undress you. Yes