The lie to which she had given a guilty consent was horrible to her, but her morbid dread of shame was more horrible.

She had done evil that good might come; but if the good failed, the evil would still remain as a dark stain upon her soul, visible to herself, if to none else.
"I will get up to-day," she said at last, to Madame's great delight.

She never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever daughter-in-law--not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish.

She was willing to be to Felicita anything that Felicita pleased--her servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion.
Since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as Felicita would ever permit her to be.
"Have you seen any newspapers lately ?" asked Felicita.
"I never read the papers, my love," answered Madame.
"I should like to see to-day's _Times_," said Felicita.
But it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it beforehand, and Felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference of an invalid.

When the late sun of the November day had risen from behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore.
There were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious eyes to scan her white, sad face.