ep, honey?" Mrs. Talcott inquired. The term hardly
expressed endearment, yet it was such an unusual one from Mrs. Talcott
that Karen could only surmise that her tears had touched the old woman.

"Very, very well," she said.

"How'd you like me to bring up some mending I've got to do and sit by
you till Mercedes comes?" Mrs. Talcott pursued.

"Oh, please do, Mrs. Talcott," said Karen. She felt that she would like
to have Mrs. Talcott there with her very much. She would probably cry
unless Mrs. Talcott stayed with her, and she did not want Tante to find
her crying.

So Mrs. Talcott brought her basket of mending and sat by the window,
sewing in silence for the most part, but exchanging with Karen now and
then a quiet remark about the state of the garden and how the plants
were doing.

At eleven the sound of the piano ceased and soon after the stately tread
of Madame von Marwitz was heard outside. Mrs. Talcott, saying that she
would come back later on, gathered up her mending as she appeared. She
was dressed for motoring, with a long white cloak lined with white fur
and her head bound in nun-like fashion with a white coif and veil.
Beautiful she looked, and sad, and gentle; a succouring Madonna; and
Karen's heart rose up to her. It clung to her and prayed; and the
realisation of her own need, her own dependence, was a new thing. She
had never before felt dependence on Tante as anything but proud and
glad. To pray to her now that she should never belie her loveliness, to
cling to that faith in her without which all her life would be a thing
distorted and unrecognisable, was not pride or gladness and seemed to be
the other side of fear. Yet so gentle were the eyes, so tender the smile
and the firm clasp of the hands taking hers, while Tante murmured,
stooping to kiss her: "Good morning to my child," that the prayer seemed
answered, the faith approved.

If Madame von Marwitz had been taken by surprise the night before, if
she had had to give herself time to think, she had now, it was evident,
done her thinking. The result was this warmly cherishing tenderness.

"Ah," she said, still stooping over Karen, while she put back her hair,
"it is good to have my child back again, mine--quite mine--once more."

"I have slept so well, Tante," said Karen. She was able to smile up at
her.

Madame von Marwitz looked about the room. "And now it is to gather the
dear old life closely about her again. Gardening, and reading; and qui