ers, yet with a kindness and
sympathy of tone which few women of the world possess. The Vicomtesse
began to speak again, evenly, gently.

"Mr. Temple," said she, "I am merely going to tell you some things which
I am sure you do not know, and when I have finished I shall not appeal
to you. It would be useless for me to try to influence you, and from
what Mr. Ritchie and others have told me of your character I am sure
that no influence will be necessary. And," she added, with a smile, "it
would be much more comfortable for us both if you sat down."

He obeyed her without a word. No wonder Madame la Vicomtesse had had an
influence at court.

"There!" she said. "If any reference I am about to make gives you pain,
I am sorry." She paused briefly. "After Mr. Ritchie took your mother
from here to New Orleans, some five years ago, she rented a little house
in the Rue Bourbon with a screen of yellow and red tiles at the edge
of the roof. It is on the south side, next to the corner of the Rue St.
Philippe. There she lives absolutely alone, except for a servant. Mr.
Clark, who has charge of her affairs, was the only person she allowed to
visit her. For her pride, however misplaced, and for her spirit we must
all admire her. The friend who discovered where she was, who went to her
and implored Mrs. Temple to let her stay, she refused."

"The friend?" he repeated in a low tone. I scarcely dared to glance at
the Vicomtesse.

"Yes, it was Antoinette," she answered. He did not reply, but his eyes
fell. "Antoinette went to her, would have comforted her, would have
cared for her, but your mother sent her away. For five years she has
lived there, Mr. Temple, alone with her past, alone with her sorrow and
remorse. You must draw the picture for yourself. If the world has a more
terrible punishment, I have not heard of it. And when, some months ago,
I came, and Antoinette sent me to her--"

"Sent you to her!" he said, raising his head quickly.

"Under another name than my own," Helene continued, apparently taking
no notice of his interruption. She leaned toward him and her voice
faltered. "I found your mother dying."

He said nothing, but got to his feet and walked slowly to the door,
where he stood looking out again. I felt for him, I would have gone to
him then had it not been for the sense in me that Helene did not wish
it. As for Helene, she sat waiting for him to turn back to her, and at
length he did.

"Yes?" he said.

"It