"I have tried to catch the sound of her voice," she continued, absently, and her eyes were filled with tears, "but I could not do that. But I have watched her, and wondered. She does not seem proud and cold."
"She will not be proud or cold to you," he said, "when she is kindness and gentleness to all the world."
"And—and when shall you see her again?" she asked, timidly.
"Now," he said. "If you will permit me, I will go to her at once. I will bring her to you."
"Oh no!" she exclaimed hastily drying her eyes. "Oh no! She must not find a sad mother, who has been crying. She will be repelled. She will think, 'I have enough of sadness.' Oh no, you must let me collect myself: I must be very brave and cheerful when my Natalie comes to me. I must make her laugh, not cry."
"Madame," said he, gravely, "I may have but a few days longer in England: do you think it is wise to put off the opportunity? You see, she must be prepared; it would be a terrible shock if she were to know suddenly. And how can one tell what may happen to-morrow or next day? At the present moment I know she is at home; I could bring her to you directly."
"Just now?" she said; and she began to tremble again. She rose and went to a mirror.
"She could not recognize herself in me. She would not believe me. And I should frighten her with my mourning and my sadness."
"I do not think you need fear, madame."
She turned to him eagerly.