"That is understood. My children and I have a consolation denied to those whose dear ones perish every day in the frightful wars of this Corsican usurper.—But do not trouble thy heart about the old gown, Clémence. Silk and brocade and such things fade and perish and are lost; but thy father's last look as he rode away—that remains, that is mine for ever. Does not the Bible say that 'the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal'?"
"Yes; but—is that what it means, mother?"
"That may not be all it means, but it may mean that too."
Clémence yielded. She was accustomed to give way to her mother; and indeed it is not usually the strong in heart who dispute pertinaciously about trifles,—like good soldiers, they reserve their fire until the right moment. A consultation followed; and certain mysteries of cutting and placing, of letting out and taking in, were decided upon and arranged. While they were discussing the pattern of the sleeves, Madame de Talmont paused to ask, in a kind of parenthesis, "What has become of Henri? I have not seen him this morning."
"He has gone for a walk."
No more was said until the ladies had entered upon the mechanical part of their task, and deft, skilful fingers were busy with needles and thread. Then Madame de Talmont resumed, "Is it a fancy of mine, or is it true, that Henri becomes every day more like our cousin Louis?"
"That, of course, I cannot tell," Clémence replied, smiling, "since, as you are aware, mother, I have never seen Cousin Louis; though I find it hard to believe that. From my earliest childhood I have thought of him and pictured him, until he has become a kind of friend to me—like the saints, or the holy recluses of Port-Royal."
"He was no saint, my daughter," returned Madame de
