rom her daughters' hearts. Sometimes I think it is my
fault; I was born in a severer age. A mother nowadays seems to be a sort
of elder sister. In my day she was something more. Yet I loved my mother
as well, or better than I did my sisters. But it is not so with those I
have borne in my bosom, and nursed upon my knee."

At this Rose flung herself, sobbing and screaming, at her mother's
knees. The baroness was alarmed. "Come, dearest, don't cry like that. It
is not too late to take your poor old mother into your confidence. What
is this mystery? and why this sorrow? How comes it I intercept at every
instant glances that were not intended for me? Why is the very air
loaded with signals and secrecy? (Rose replied only by sobs.) Is some
deceit going on? (Rose sobbed.) Am I to have no reply but these sullen
sobs? will you really tell me nothing?"

"I've nothing to tell," sobbed Rose.

"Well, then, will you do something for me?"

Such a proposal was not only a relief, but a delight to the deceiving
but loving daughter. She started up crying, "Oh, yes, mamma; anything,
everything. Oh, thank you!" In the ardor of her gratitude, she wanted
to kiss her mother; but the baroness declined the embrace politely, and
said, coldly and bitterly, "I shall not ask much; I should not venture
now to draw largely on your affection; it's only to write a few lines
for me."

Rose got paper and ink with great alacrity, and sat down all beaming,
pen in hand.

The baroness dictated the letter slowly, with an eye gimleting her
daughter all the time.

"Dear--Monsieur--Riviere."

The pen fell from Rose's hand, and she turned red and then pale.

"What! write to him?"

"Not in your own name; in mine. But perhaps you prefer to give me the
trouble."

"Cruel! cruel!" sighed Rose, and wrote the words as requested.

The baroness dictated again,--

"Oblige me by coming here at your very earliest convenience."

"But, mamma, if he is in Normandy," remonstrated Rose, fighting every
inch of the ground.

"Never you mind where he is," said the baroness. "Write as I request."

"Yes, mamma," said Rose with sudden alacrity; for she had recovered her
ready wit, and was prepared to write anything, being now fully resolved
the letter should never go.

"Now sign my name." Rose complied. "There; now fold it, and address it
to his lodgings." Rose did so; and, rising with a cheerful air, said she
would send Jacintha with it directly.

She was half ac