"He, he—always he!" the mother passionately interrupted. "You do not love your mother. You are thinking always of one whom you never saw till a year ago. My doubts, my fears, my sufferings are nothing to you. I might die—"
"Hush! hush! Whenever did you speak like this before, mamma? Love you! Did ever a child love her mother more? But our affection is sure, while that of him you do not like me to mention is threatened, and its existence forbidden. I cannot help but think, mamma, and of him. If I could, I were a traitor to the noblest instincts that sway a woman's heart. I may not marry him—you say I never will—but think of him I must, and pray for him I will, till the last breath has left my lips. So, what is your news, dear mamma? Has papa written?"
"It is too early for the mail."
"True, true. Some one has come, then; a messenger, perhaps, from New York. M. Dubois—"
"Dubois is a traitor. He has not kept the secret of our whereabouts. We have to settle with Monsieur and Madame Dubois, meanwhile—"
"What?"
"Honora, can I trust you?"
"Trust me?"
"Ah! who is trembling now?"
"I! I! But how can I help it! You glance toward the door; you seem afraid some one will come. You—you—"