Mathilde had withdrawn, and was telling her mother about the unpleasant surprise that had greeted her return.
"How did you come to know these people?" asked Heathcote.
"Mdlle. Duprez brought me here. She has known the Tillets all her life. She will answer to you for their respectability."
"Well, we will think about it. Let me look at you, Hilda. You are not very blooming, my poor child. It does not seem to me that Paris agrees with you over well."
"Paris agrees with me quite as well as any other place," she answered quietly.
He took her hand and led her to the window, and looked thoughtfully into the sad, pale face, with its expression of settled pain. Yes, he knew what that look meant; he had experienced that dull, slow agony of an aching heart. She had surrendered all that was dearest in life, and she must live through the aching sense of loss, live on to days of dull contentment with a sunless lot. He who himself had never learned the lesson of forgetfulness was not inclined to think lightly of his sister's trouble.
"You look very unhappy, Hilda," he said. "I begin to question the wisdom of your conduct. Do you believe that Bothwell really cared more for this audacious widow than for you?"
"He had been devoted to her for years," answered Hilda. "I saw his letters; I saw the evidence of his love under his own hand. He wrote to her as he never wrote to me."
"He was younger in those days," argued Heathcote. "Youngsters are fond of big words."
"Ah, but that first love must be the truest. I never cared for any one till I saw Bothwell; and I know that my first love will be my last."
"I hope not," said Heathcote. "I hope you have acted wisely in your prompt renunciation. There were reasons why I did not care for the match."
"You surely have left off suspecting him," said Hilda, with an indignant look. "You are not mad enough to think that he was concerned in that girl's death!"
"No, Hilda, that suspicion is a thing of the past. And now let us talk seriously. You have set your heart upon pursuing your studies at the Conservatoire?"
"It is my only object in life."
"And you would like to remain in this family?"
"Very much. They are the cleverest, nicest people I ever knew—with the exception of my nearest and dearest, you and Dora—and Bothwell. They are all as kind to me as if I were a daughter of the house. The life suits me exactly. I should like to stay here for a twelvemonth."
"That is a categorical answer," said Heathcote, "and leaves
