He stopped, for when he saw her before him, so pale, serious, and melancholy, his heart seemed bursting with pity, and the gentle reproof died on his lips.
"My poor child!" he murmured.
Perhaps it was the black woollen dress, unrelieved, contrary to her usual custom, by flowers or ornaments of any kind, but she seemed quite a different creature. The gay, beautiful child had suddenly developed into a staid woman with sad, wise eyes. Her form seemed more slender, and her features sharper.
"Did you sleep last night?" he asked, stroking her pale cheek tenderly.
"Certainly," she replied, nervously. She glanced at the clock. It was still five minutes to eleven. "Wanda was here just now," she continued. "Wiliszenski will give a recitation of his poems up-stairs to-morrow, and she invited me to attend, but I declined."
"You were wrong. Prudence alone should have advised you to act differently. Not as one who has committed an unpardonable sin; you cannot become a nun all at once. To please--"
"Father," she said, beseechingly. "If you only knew--"
"I do know. But you will please accept, Judith."
She was silent; it was a command, against which there was no appeal. A carriage stopped, and some "hurrahs" were heard outside. Judith's cheeks flushed purple.
"It is the count," said Nathaniel. He hastened to meet the young man, and bowed his gray head as if welcoming a prince.