Jacintha.

Jacintha, conscious that she had betrayed her trust, was almost
heart-broken. She was ashamed to appear before her young mistress, and,
coward-like, wanted to avoid knowing even how much harm she had done.

She pretended toothache, bound up her face, and never stirred from the
kitchen. But she was not to escape: the other servant came down with a
message: "Madame Raynal wanted to see her directly."

She came quaking, and found Josephine all alone.

Josephine rose to meet her, and casting a furtive glance round the room
first, threw her arms round Jacintha's neck, and embraced her with many
tears.

"Was ever fidelity like yours? how COULD you do it, Jacintha? and how
can I ever repay it? But, no; it is too base of me to accept such a
sacrifice from any woman."

Jacintha was so confounded she did not know what to say. But it was a
mystification that could not endure long between two women, who were
both deceived by a third. Between them they soon discovered that it must
have been Rose who had sacrificed herself.

"And Edouard has never been here since," said Josephine.

"And never will, madame."

"Yes, he shall! there must be some limit even to my feebleness, and my
sister's devotion. You shall take a line to him from me. I will write it
this moment."

The letter was written. But it was never sent. Rose found Josephine and
Jacintha together; saw a letter was being written, asked to see it; on
Josephine's hesitating, snatched it out of her hand, read it, tore it to
pieces, and told Jacintha to leave the room. She hated the sight of
poor Jacintha, who had slept at the very moment when all depended on her
watchfulness.

"So you were going to send to HIM, unknown to me."

"Forgive me, Rose." Rose burst out crying.

"O Josephine! is it come to this? Would you deceive ME?"

"You have deceived ME! Yes! it has come to that. I know all. Twill not
consent to destroy ALL I love."

She then begged hard for leave to send the letter.

Rose gave an impetuous refusal. "What could you say to him? foolish
thing, don't you know him, and his vanity? When you had exposed yourself
to him, and showed him I had insulted him for you, do you think he would
forgive me? No! this is to make light of my love--to make me waste the
sacrifice I have made. I feel that sacrifice as much as you do, more
perhaps, and I would rather die in a convent than waste that night of
shame and agony. Come, promise me, no more attempts of