herself, poor child—a long letter, but I have not read it yet."
"Does our mother give any particulars?" asked Ivan.
"Only that his illness was a short one—inflammation on the lungs. She says Stéphanie has behaved admirably, tending her father bravely and carefully, and watching beside him to the very end. She is almost heart-broken."
"Poor little one!—How lonely she must be! I wish we could bring her here. You would comfort her, Clémence."
Ivan paused; then resumed, with a slight touch of uneasiness in his voice, "M'amie, will it trouble you if a friend comes to visit us to-night?"
A look of pain passed swiftly over the face of Clémence. The sorrowing heart is prone to shrink within itself, and to dread the first breath of outer air, the first touch of common life. "Not if it is only an intimate friend," she said at last, "such as M. Tolstoi or M. Adrian Wertsch; but I should not quite care to see a stranger, Ivan."
"It is no stranger; it is one whom we both love." Then he returned rather nervously to the subject of the letters, asking what would become of Stéphanie.
"For the present she is to be sent to the pension where her cousin Coralie is," Clémence answered. "Her uncle, who is now her guardian, appears to wish it, and she herself is indifferent. La Tante has not been very well of late, Ivan; she seems to be in low spirits, but I am thankful to say she is becoming reconciled to Henri's change; and he, for his part, writes very cheerfully. The best judges in the profession he has adopted think highly of his talent. He has just gained some prize for a design;—but I have not yet finished reading his letter."
So they talked on, until at last Ivan suggested preparations for tea, and rather to the surprise of Clémence interested himself in them in a way quite foreign to his usual habits. She only looked at him wonderingly, and with a little amusement,
