The young wife left her seat, went forward, took it in her ungloved hand, and kissed it. Then she returned to her place, and the voice said:
“Gertrude!”
The young girl went through the same performance, and as she loosed it, the hand was passed gently over both her cheeks, and then withdrawn, when Gertrude returned to her seat, and there was again silence.
“You are not happy, Renée,” said the voice at last, in its cold measured accents; “there was a tear on my hand.”
Renée sighed, but made no reply.
“Gertrude, child, I like duty towards parents; but I think a daughter goes too far when, at their wish, she marries a man she does not love.”
“Oh, uncle dear,” cried Gertrude hysterically, “pray, pray, do not talk like this!”
She made a brave effort to keep back her tears, and partially succeeded, for Renée softly knelt down by her side and drew her head close to her breast.
“Poor children!” said the voice again. “I am sorry, but I cannot help you. You must help yourselves.”
There was a nervous, querulous tone in the voice now, as if the suppressed sobs that faintly rose troubled the speaker, but it had passed when the voice was heard once more in a quiet way, more like an appeal than a command: