words,
and sudden withdrawal of confidence,--his mother's unwonted crossness and
fault-finding, all made Virginie's kind, gentle treatment, more than ever
charming to the lad. He half resolved to tell her how he had been acting
as a spy upon her actions, and at whose desire he had done it. But he
was afraid of Morin, and of the vengeance which he was sure would fall
upon him for any breach of confidence. Towards half-past eight that
evening--Pierre, watching, saw Virginie arrange several little things--she
was in the inner room, but he sat where he could see her through the
glazed partition. His mother sat--apparently sleeping--in the great easy-
chair; Virginie moved about softly, for fear of disturbing her. She made
up one or two little parcels of the few things she could call her own:
one packet she concealed about herself--the others she directed, and left
on the shelf. 'She is going,' thought Pierre, and (as he said in giving
me the account) his heart gave a spring, to think that he should never
see her again. If either his mother or his cousin had been more kind to
him, he might have endeavoured to intercept her; but as it was, he held
his breath, and when she came out he pretended to read, scarcely knowing
whether he wished her to succeed in the purpose which he was almost sure
she entertained, or not. She stopped by him, and passed her hand over
his hair. He told me that his eyes filled with tears at this caress.
Then she stood for a moment looking at the sleeping Madame Babette, and
stooped down and softly kissed her on the forehead. Pierre dreaded lest
his mother should awake (for by this time the wayward, vacillating boy
must have been quite on Virginie's side), but the brandy she had drunk
made her slumber heavily. Virginie went. Pierre's heart beat fast. He
was sure his cousin would try to intercept her; but how, he could not
imagine. He longed to run out and see the catastrophe,--but he had let
the moment slip; he was also afraid of reawakening his mother to her
unusual state of anger and violence."

CHAPTER VIII.

"Pierre went on pretending to read, but in reality listening with acute
tension of ear to every little sound. His perceptions became so
sensitive in this respect that he was incapable of measuring time, every
moment had seemed so full of noises, from the beating of his heart up to
the roll of the heavy carts in the distance. He wondered whether
Virginie would have reache