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The woman stared at her more than ever.

“It is not my place to announce you,” she said. “I only came up because I thought you would not find the way.”

She could not have told why it was or how it happened, but when at last she was ushered into the salon a strange sense of oppression fell upon her. The room was long and lofty, and so shadowed by the heavy curtains falling across the windows that it was almost dark.

For a few seconds she saw nobody, and then all at once some one rose from a reclining chair at the farther end of the apartment and advanced a few steps toward her–a tall and stately figure, moving slowly.

“Who?”–she heard a cold, soft voice say, and then came a sharp cry, and Laurel white hands were thrown out in a strange, desperate gesture, and she stopped and stood like a statue of stone. “Mother–mother–mother!” she repeated again and again, as if some indescribable pain shook her.

If she had been beautiful before, now she was more beautiful still. She was even taller than ever,–she was like a queen. Her long robe was of delicate gray velvet, and her hair and throat and wrists were bound with pearls and gold. She was so lovely and so stately that for a moment Mere Giraud was half awed, but the next it was as if her strong mother heart broke loose.

“My Laure!” she cried out. “Yes, it is I, my child–it is I, Laure;” and she almost fell upon her knees as she embraced her, trembling for very ecstasy.

But Laure scarcely spoke. She was white and cold, and at last she gasped forth three words.

“Where is Valentin?”

But Mere Giraud did not know. It was not Valentin she cared to see. Valentin could wait, since she had, her Laure. She sat down beside her in one of the velvet chairs, and she held the fair hand in her own. It was covered with jewels, but she did not notice them; her affection only told her that it was cold and tremulous.

“You are not well, Laure?” she said. “It was well that my dream warned me to come. Something is wrong.”

“I am quite well,” said Laure. “I do not suffer at all.”

She was so silent that if Mere Giraud had not had so much to say she would have been troubled as it was, however, she was content to pour forth her affectionate speeches one after another without waiting to be answered.

“Where is Monsieur Legrand?” she ventured at last.

“He is,” said Laure, in a hesitant voice,–“he is in Normandy.”

“Shall I not see him?” asked Mere Giraud.

“I am afraid not, unless your visit is a long one. He will be absent for some months.”

She did not speak with any warmth. It was as if she did not care to speak of him at all,–as if the mention of him even embarrassed her a little.

Mere Giraud felt a secret misgiving.

“I shall not stay long,” she said; “but I could not remain away. I wished so eagerly to see you, and know that you were happy. You are happy, my Laure?”

Laure turned toward her and gave her a long look–a look which seemed unconsciously to ask her a question.

“Happy!” she answered slowly and deliberately, “I suppose so. Yes.”

Mere Giraud caressed her hand again and again. “Yes,” she said, “it must be so. The good are always happy; and you, my Laure, have always been dutiful and virtuous, and consequently you are rewarded. You have never caused me a grief, and now, thank the good God you are prosperous.” She looked at her almost adoringly, and at last touched the soft thick gray velvet of her drapery with reverence. “Do you wear such things as this every day?” she asked.

“Yes,” Laure answered, “every day.”

“Ah!” sighed the happy mother. “How Monsieur Legrand must adore you!”

At length she found time to ask a few questions concerning Valentin.