ll be presented to you in such a practical,
advantageous way that you will cease to think it all chance."

"Advantageous?" and the Marquise raised her brows; "could we be more
happy than we are?" The old face softened at the words and tone.

"But I shall not be always with you," she replied; "and then--"

"Alain knew," said the girl, softly. "He said as a widow I could have
liberty. I would need no guardian; I could look after all my affairs
as young girls could not do. Each year I shall grow older--more
competent."

"But there is one thing Alain did not foresee: that your many suitors
would rob you of peace until you made choice of some particular one.
These late days I have felt I should like the choice to be made while
I am here to see."

"Maman! you are not ill?" and in a moment she was beside the couch.

"No; I think not; no, no, nothing to alarm you. I have only been
thinking that together--both of us to plan and arrange--yet I need
Loris daily. And if there should be only one of us, that remaining one
would need some man's help all the more, and if it were you, who then
would the man be? You perceive! It is wise to make plans for all
possibilities."

"There are women who live alone."

"Not happy women," said the dowager in a tone, admitting of no
contradiction; "the women who live alone from choice are cold and
selfish; or have hurts to hide and are heart-sick of a world in which
their illusions have been destroyed; or else they have never known
companionship, and so never feel the lack of it. My child, I will not
have you like any of these; you were made to enjoy life, and life to
the young should mean--well, I am a sentimentalist. I married the one
man who had all my affection. I approve of such marriages. If the man
comes for whom you would care like that, I should welcome him."

"He will never come, Maman," and the smile of the Marquise someway
drifted into a sigh. "I shall live and die the widow of Alain."

The dowager embraced her. "But for all that I do not approve," she
protested. "Your reasons for not marrying do not convince me, and I
promise my support to the most worthy who presents himself. Have you
an ideal to which nothing human may reach?"

"For three years your son has seemed ideal to me," said the Marquise,
after a moment's hesitation. The dowager regarded her attentively.

"He was?" she asked; "your regard for him does you credit; but, amber
eyes, it is not for a man who has been