"It was not that, Tante. Gregory would have done what I wished. You must not think that I was forced in any way." Karen now had raised her head. "But we had waited for you. We thought that you were coming. It was only at the last moment that you let us know, Tante, and you did not even say when you were coming back."
Madame von Marwitz kept silence for some moments after this, savouring perhaps in the words—though Karen's eyes, in speaking them, had also filled with tears—some hint of resistance. She looked away from the girl, keeping her hand in hers, as she said: "I could not come. I could not tell you when I was to come. There were reasons that bound me; ties; claims; a tangle of troubled human lives—the threads passing through my fingers. No; I was not free; and there I would have had you trust me. No, no, my Karen, we will speak of it no farther. I understand young hearts—they are forgetful; they cannot dwell on the shadowed places. Let us put it aside, the great grief. What surprises me is to find that the littlest, littlest ones cling so closely. I am foolish, Karen. I have had much to bear lately, and I cannot shake off the little griefs. That others than myself should have chosen my child's trousseau; oh, it is small—so very small a thing; yet it hurts; it hurts. That the joy of seeking all the pretty clothes together—that, that, too, should have been taken from me. Do not weep, child."
"Tante, you could not come, and the things had to be made ready. They all—Mrs. Forrester—Betty—seemed to feel there was no time to lose. And I have always chosen my own clothes; I did not know that you would feel this so."
"Betty? Who is Betty?" Madame von Marwitz mournfully yet alertly inquired.
"Lady Jardine, Gregory's sister-in-law. You remember, Tante, I have written of her. She has been so kind."
"Betty," Madame von Marwitz repeated, sadly. "Yes, I remember; she was at your wedding, I think. There, dry your eyes, child. I understand. It is a loving heart, but it forgot. The sad old Tante was crowded out by new friends—new joys."
"No, you must not say that, Tante. It is not true."
The hardness that Madame von Marwitz knew how to interpret was showing itself on Karen's face, despite the tears. Her guardian rose, passing her arm around her shoulders. "It is not true, then, chérie. When one is very sad one is foolish. Ah, I know it; one imagines too quickly things that are not true. They float and then they cling, like the tiny barbed down of the thistle, and then, behold, one's brain is choked with thorny weeds. That is how it comes, my Karen. Forgive me. There; kiss me."
"Darling Tante," Karen murmured, clasping her closely. "Nothing, nothing crowded you out. Nothing could ever crowd you out. Say that you believe me. Say that all the thistles are rooted up and thrown away."
"Rooted up and burned—burned root and branch, my child. I promise it. I trust my child; she is mine; my loving one. Ainsi soit-il. And now," Madame von Marwitz spoke with sudden gaiety, "and now show me your home, my Karen, show me all over this home of yours to which already you are so attached. Ah—it is a child in love!"