remain
in them. And, moreover, he desired to provide his daughter with all
comfort. All the affection of his weak heart was now given to that
child, whose resemblance to her mother distracted him. He would gaze at
her for hours with tears in his eyes. A great passion was springing up
within him; his one dream now was to dower her richly and seek happiness
through her, if indeed he could ever be happy again. Thus feelings of
avarice had come to him; he economized with respect to everything that
was not connected with her, and secretly sought supplementary work in
order that he might give her more luxury and increase her dower. Without
her he would have died of weariness and self-abandonment. She was indeed
fast becoming his very life.

"Why, yes," said she with a pretty smile, in answer to a question which
Boutan put to her, "it is I who have brought poor papa back. I wanted to
be sure that he would take a stroll before setting to work again. Other
wise he shuts himself up in his room and doesn't stir."

Morange made a vague apologetic gesture. At home, indeed, overcome as
he was by grief and remorse, he lived in his bedroom in the company of
a collection of his wife's portraits, some fifteen photographs, showing
her at all ages, which he had hung on the walls.

"It is very fine to-day, Monsieur Morange," said Boutan, "you do right
in taking a stroll."

The unhappy man raised his eyes in astonishment, and glanced at the
sun as if he had not previously noticed it. "That is true, it is fine
weather--and besides it is very good for Reine to go out a little."

Then he tenderly gazed at her, so charming, so pink and white in her
black mourning gown. He was always fearing that she must feel bored
during the long hours when he left her at home, alone with the servant.
To him solitude was so distressful, so full of the wife whom he mourned,
and whom he accused himself of having killed.

"Papa won't believe that one never feels _ennui_ at my age," said the
girl gayly. "Since my poor mamma is no longer there, I must needs be
a little woman. And, besides, the Baroness sometimes calls to take me
out."

Then she gave a shrill cry on seeing a brougham draw up close to the
curb. A woman was leaning out of the window, and she recognized her.

"Why, papa, there is the Baroness! She must have gone to our house, and
Clara must have told her that I had accompanied you here."

This, indeed, was what had happened. Morange hastily le