"For them Vera—for them, and for you."
Then she fled, stifling her sobs.
Next morning, after having brushed with a kiss the eyelids of her sleeping children, who it may be were dreaming of her, Mme. Paul Meyrin, bent with sorrow, took her place in the carriage that was to bring her to Mittau.
On her arrival in Paris she was scarcely recognizable. In forty-eight hours she looked ten years older. When Mme. Daubrel saw her come into the room in the Rue d'Assas, where she was sewing near the sleeping Marie, she could not hinder a movement of surprise.
"Yes," said Lise, sinking into her friend's arms, "it is so, is it not? I am much changed?"
"No, no, but the journey has tired you," said Marthe. "What else could be expected?"
"Yes, it has," she said, with a sad smile. "And Marie?"
"You can see. The dear little thing is as well as possible. I have been with her every day, and all day long."
"I knew I could depend on you."
Mme. Meyrin kissed her daughter softly, fearing to disturb her; and sinking into a chair opposite Marthe, asked: