“But no money.”
“We have plenty of jewels, and pictures, and movables. We can take a farm.”
“A farm!” shrieked the baroness.
“Why, his uncle has a farm, and we have had recourse to him for help: better a farmhouse than an almshouse, though that almshouse were a palace instead of a chateau.”
Josephine winced and held up her hand deprecatingly. The baroness paled: it was a terrible stroke of language to come from her daughter. She said sternly, “There is no answer to that. We were born nobles, let us die farmers: only permit me to die first.”
“Forgive me, mother,” said Rose, kneeling. “I was wrong; it is for me to obey you, not to dictate. I speak no more.” And, after kissing her mother and Josephine, she crept away, but she left her words sticking in both their consciences.
“HIS uncle,” said the shrewd old lady. “She is no longer a child; and she says his uncle. This makes me half suspect it is her that dear boy—Josephine, tell me the truth, which of you is it?”
“Dear mother, who should it be? they are nearly of an age: and what man would not love our sweet Rose, that had eyes or a heart?”
The baroness sighed deeply; and was silent. After awhile she said, “The moment they have a lover, he detaches their hearts from their poor old mother. She is no longer what my Josephine is to me.”
“Mamma, she is my superior. I see it more and more every day. She is proud: she is just; she looks at both sides. As for me, I am too apt to see only what will please those I love.”