ience-smiting mendacity, “and my part has been quite innocent.” “There has been a plot of some kind,” said F?/p>

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ise, breaking into the more familiar Frenc

  • h. “My uncle, my father, my

  • Aunt Clothilde have been

  • in it. And now you—under my

  • uncle’s orders. There has

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been a mystery about my mother which I have

  • never been able to understan

  • d—like the mystery of the T

  • rinity or the Holy Sacrament

  • s. And to-day I understand s

ore the air of o

till less. I have not seen my mother since I

  • was five years old. She h

  • as not written to me for man

  • y years, although I have written regul

  • arly. Did she get my letters

ne who has a

? These are questions I have been asking mys

  • elf the last few hours. Why

  • did my father not allow me

  • to see her in the hospital

  • in Paris? Why did my Aunt Cl

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othilde always turn the mention of h

few hours later, she came to him a

er name aside and would tell me nothing about her? And now, when she died, why did t

hey not telegraph for me to go to Paris, so as to look for one last time on her face? They knew all that was in my heart. What have they all been hiding from me?” “My poor Félise,” said Martin, “how can I tell?” And how could he, seeing that he was bound in honour t

o keep her in ignorance? “Sometimes I think she may have had some dreadful disease that ravaged her dear features, and they wished to spare me the knowledge. But my father has always drawn me the picture of her lying beautiful as she always was upon the bed she could not leave.”

“Whatever it was,” said Martin, “you

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