"My mother, they are happy!
"Here, then, is my dream—here is my plan.
"My husband has no vices, as Monsieur Jaubert had. He has only the habits of all the brilliant men of his Paris-world. It is necessary, my own mother, gradually to reform him; to suggest insensibly to him the new idea that one may pass one evening at home in company with a beloved and loving wife, without dying suddenly of consumption.
"The rest will follow.
"What is this rest? It is the taste for a quiet life, for the serious sweetness of the domestic hearth—the family taste—the idea of seclusion—the recovered soul!
"Is it not so, my good angel? Then trust me. I am more than ever full of ardor, courage, and confidence. For he loves me with all his heart, with more levity, perhaps, than I deserve; but still—he loves me!
"He loves me; he spoils me; he heaps presents upon me. There is no pleasure he does not offer me, except, be it understood, the pleasure of passing one evening at home together.
"But he loves me! That is the great point—he loves me!
"Now, dearest mother, let me whisper one final word-a word that makes me laugh and cry at the same time. It seems to me that for some time past I have had two hearts—a large one of my own, and— another—smaller!
"Oh, my mother! I see you in tears. But it is a great mystery
this. It is a dream of heaven; but perhaps only a dream, which I
have not yet told even to my husband—only to my adorable mother!
Do not weep, for it is not yet quite certain.