measures for the monopoly of this one heart. The little boy had responded well to her efforts, had given her much, had forgotten much. But he had not given her all, and he had not forgotten the one whom to eradicate from his memory she would have bartered all her possessions, much as she loved them,—his own mother.
"I am your maman, Charles."
"You are my maman, but not my own maman." The childish verbal distinction became the menace of her life, the sentiment of his. And the dead mother, as dead mothers do, became a religion, while the living one remained a devotion.
She walked like a Duperre through the volleys of commentaries on the sidewalk. "Maman," said the young man in a low voice, as they mounted the steps, "be discreet, I implore you."
"Bah!" was the answer; and then he began to regret that he had not sought an excuse to stay away. He was as sensitive as she was obtuse, and there seemed to be no escape from impending ridicule. He placed himself out of
