"It was poor papa's wish, Everard."
Presently madame came in, and there were lights, and bustle, and separation. Mme. Hunsden must not remain too long, must not excite herself. Monsieur must go away, and come again to-morrow.
"I will let her see you every day, poor, homesick child, until she is well enough to go into the classe and commence her studies. Then, not so often. But monsieur will be gone long before that!"
"No," Sir Everard said, distinctly. "I remain in Paris for the winter.
I trust to madame's kind heart to permit me to see Miss Hunsden often."
"Often! Ah, mon Dieu! how you English are impetuous! so—how do you call him?—unreasonable! Monsieur may see mademoiselle in the salon every Saturday afternoon—not oftener."
"It is better so, Everard. I want to study—Heaven knows I need it! and your frequent visits would distract me. Let once a week suffice."
Sir Everard yielded to the inevitable with the best grace possible. He took his leave, raising Harriet's hand to his lips.
Harrie lingered by the window for a moment, looking wistfully after the slender figure, and slow, graceful walk.
"If he only knew!" she murmured. "If he only knew the terrible secret that struck me down that night! But I dare not tell—I dare not, even if that voice from the dead had not forbidden me. I love him so dearly—so dearly! Ah, pitiful Lord! let him never know!"