haps a
father might not be to blame, though sometimes--oh, Hannah, it is
dreadful, but my father seems to me a cruel, wicked man. It was he that
did it. What did I know? Why your knowledge of the world is great and
vast compared to mine! I had had only the sisters to teach me, and they
were as ignorant as I. My father told me he had no home to take me to,
and that Robert would give me a sweet home, and love and protection and
kindness, and that I would be so happy and must consider myself very
fortunate. He told me that Robert could not express himself very well,
speaking a different tongue from my own, but that he loved me devotedly
and that the great object of his life would be to make me happy. And so
I married him, glad to please my father, pleased myself, as a child, at
the idea of having a home of my own, and ignorant as a child of what I
was doing."

"And without loving your husband?" said the little teacher, with a look
that showed she could be severe.

"What did I know about love? I thought I loved him. He was handsome and
kind to me and my father said he adored me--he told me himself that he
loved me. If his manner was not very ardent, what did I know about ardor
in love-making? I knew my not being able to speak English fluently must
be a hindrance to him in expressing himself, and I thought he was
everything I could wish, and never doubted I should be as happy as a
child with a doll-house and everything else that she wanted. As I
remember now," she said reflectingly, as if searching back into her
memory, "Robert was different in those days--not an impassioned lover,
compared to the tenor who sang in the opera to-night, but compared to
what he is now, he was so. There was once that he seemed to care a
little--"

She broke off and Hannah spoke:

"I was thinking to-night about you and whether you were not in danger,"
she said, with a certain air of wisdom which her somewhat hard
experience of life had given her. "How that man looked at you as he sang
those words! That wild passion of love which they expressed seemed a
reality. I wondered if you could hear them unmoved--and a thought of
danger for you made me feel unhappy."

Christine did not answer her for a moment. A strange smile came to her
lips as her eyes rested gently on the little teacher. Eyes and smile had
both something of hopelessness in them, as if she despaired of making
herself understood.

"That was sweet of you, Hannah," she said presentl