gue's face lightened. "Your mother lives."

Flora questioned again, this time very timorously: "Will she love me?"

Gonzague seemed to look at the girl sympathetically, but really looked at
her critically. He found her so pleasing to his eye that he almost
regretted that she had been chosen for the part she had to play, but also
he found her on the whole so suited to that part that he felt bound to
stifle his regret. "Surely," he said, and smiled kindly upon her.

Flora gave a little sigh of satisfaction. "I have always dreamed that I
should be a great lady. And dreams come true, you know--the dreams that
gypsies dream."

Gonzague raised his hand to check her speech. "Forget the gypsies. Forget
that the gypsies called you Flora. Your name is Gabrielle."

Flora gave a start of surprise. "Gabrielle!" she said. "How strange! That
is the name of my dearest friend."

It was Gonzague's turn to be surprised, but he never was known to betray
an emotion. It was with an air of complete indifference that he asked:
"Who is she?"

And Flora answered, simply: "A girl I knew and loved when we were living
in Spain."

Gonzague knew that he was agitated; and that he had every reason to be
agitated, but he knew also that no one beholding him would know of his
agitation. "What became of her?" he asked, still with the same apparent
indifference.

And Flora answered as readily as before: "We travelled to France
together."

"Travelled to France together!" echoed Gonzague.

Perhaps, in spite of himself, some hint of keenness was betrayed in the
voice he was so studious to keep indifferent, for this time Flora gave
question for question, suspiciously: "Why does all this interest you?"

Gonzague's voice was perfectly indifferent when he replied: "Everything
that concerns you interests me. Tell me; was this other Gabrielle a
Spaniard like you?"

Flora shook her head. "Oh no. She was French."

"Was she, too, an orphan?" Gonzague asked.

"Yes," said Flora; "but she had a guardian who loved her like a father."

The gypsy girl could not guess what raging passions were masked by the
changeless serenity of Gonzague's face. "Who was that?" he asked, as he
might have asked the name of some dog or some cat.

And he got the answer he expected from the girl: "A young French
soldier."

Perhaps, again, Gonzague's voice was keener with his next question:
"Whose name was--"

In this case Flora, suddenly recalling her conversation with Ga