“Well, then, will you do something for me?”
Such a proposal was not only a relief, but a delight to the deceiving but loving daughter. She started up crying, “Oh, yes, mamma; anything, everything. Oh, thank you!” In the ardor of her gratitude, she wanted to kiss her mother; but the baroness declined the embrace politely, and said, coldly and bitterly, “I shall not ask much; I should not venture now to draw largely on your affection; it’s only to write a few lines for me.”
Rose got paper and ink with great alacrity, and sat down all beaming, pen in hand.
The baroness dictated the letter slowly, with an eye gimleting her daughter all the time.
“Dear—Monsieur—Riviere.”
The pen fell from Rose’s hand, and she turned red and then pale.
“What! write to him?”
“Not in your own name; in mine. But perhaps you prefer to give me the trouble.”
“Cruel! cruel!” sighed Rose, and wrote the words as requested.
The baroness dictated again,—