rtainly himself,
those were the same features, that was the man to whom she had willingly
given her hand, her heart, herself, and yet now that she saw him again a
cold barrier of shyness, of modesty, seemed to have risen between them.
His first kiss, even, had not made her happy: she blushed and felt
saddened--a curious result of the long absence! She could not define
the changes wrought by years in his appearance: his countenance
seemed harsher, yet the lines of his face, his outer man, his whole
personality, did not seem altered, but his soul had changed its nature,
a different mind looked forth from those eyes. Bertrande knew him for
her husband, and yet she hesitated. Even so Penelope, on the return of
Ulysses, required a certain proof to confirm the evidence of her eyes,
and her long absent husband had to remind her of secrets known only to
herself.

Martin, however, as if he understood Bertrande's feeling and divined
some secret mistrust, used the most tender and affectionate phrases, and
even the very pet names which close intimacy had formerly endeared to
them.

"My queen," he said, "my beautiful dove, can you not lay aside your
resentment? Is it still so strong that no submission can soften it?
Cannot my repentance find grace in your eyes? My Bertrande, my Bertha,
my Bertranilla, as I used to call you."

She tried to smile, but stopped short, puzzled; the names were the very
same, but the inflexion of voice quite different.

Martin took her hands in his. "What pretty hands! Do you still wear my
ring? Yes, here it is, and with it the sapphire ring I gave you the day
Sanxi was born."

Bertrande did not answer, but she took the child and placed him in his
father's arms.

Martin showered caresses on his son, and spoke of the time when he
carried him as a baby in the garden, lifting him up to the fruit trees,
so that he could reach and try to bite the fruit. He recollected one day
when the poor child got his leg terribly torn by thorns, and convinced
himself, not without emotion, that the scar could still be seen.

Bertrande was touched by this display of affectionate recollections, and
felt vexed at her own coldness. She came up to Martin and laid her hand
in his. He said gently--

"My departure caused you great grief: I now repent what I did. But I was
young, I was proud, and your reproaches were unjust."

"Ah," said she, "you have not forgotten the cause of our quarrel?"

"It was little Rose, our nei