"What does your husband say?"

"I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will

think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so."

Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. "Your reason is not yet clear to

me," she said.

Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as

she sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away

her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how

it would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding,

an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt;

but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another

than herself.

"I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!" Edna

exclaimed. "You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you

everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh

and be merry for once." And she uttered a sigh that came from the very

depths of her being.

If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert

during the interval of Edna's visits, she would give her the letter

unsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her

humor prompted her while the young woman read the letter.

The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the

tin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door,

and Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven

and handed it to Edna.

"Another! so soon!" she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. "Tell

me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?"

"Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again

if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you

a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and

is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to

belong to him."

"Why do you show me his letters, then?"

"Haven't you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot

deceive me," and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and

began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding

it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an

effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It

prepared her for joy and exultation.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. "Why did

you not tell me?" She went and grasped Mademoiselle's hands up from the

keys. "Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?"




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