"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, "Some bad news?"
Silently Sylvie handed her Fontenelle's letter.
"Dear me! He is actually in Rome!" said the old lady, "And he asks you to be his wife! Well, dear child, is not that what you had a right to expect from him?"
"Yes—perhaps—but I cannot—not now!—Oh no, not now!" murmured
Sylvie, and her eyes, wet with tears, were full of an infinite pain.
"But—pardon me dear—do you not love him?"
Sylvie stood silent—gazing blankly before her, with such perplexity and sorrow in her face that her faithful gouvernante grew anxious and troubled.
"Child, do not look like that!" she exclaimed, "It cuts me to the heart! You were not made for sorrow!"
"Dear Katrine,—we were all made for sorrow," said Sylvie slowly, "Sorrow is good for us. And perhaps I have not had sufficient of it to make me strong. And this is real sorrow to me,—to refuse Fontenelle!"
"But why refuse him if you love him?" asked Madame Bozier bewildered.
Sylvie sat down beside her, and put one soft arm caressingly round her neck.