back, and cowering, with hidden face, had
listened to her daughter's words, "hear me
before you go! I have deserved everything—
everything thing you can say; but oh, from you it
is bitter to hear it! Oh, my daughter, listen
to me!" She flung herself at Miss Vaux's
feet on the bare floor.

"You speak of the sorrows I have brought
upon you—the sorrow and the shame; but
have they equalled what I have endured?
Day and night—day and night—through
months and years—fourteen long years—oh,
think of it! I have wished to kill myself,
but I dared not do it; I have prayed
fervently to die. Oh, no, no, stay and listen
to me! My last hope—my last hope in
heaven and earth is only with you. Oh, my
daughter! you say you loved me once—will
not one spark of the old love live again? I
will try yet once more to move you to pity. I
have not told you all. I have not told you
how, in my agony, I tried to find rest and
peace; how I sought it everywhere—wandering
from place to place alone, in hunger and
thirst, in cold and weariness, in poverty and
wretchedness; finding none anywhere, until at
last, worn out with misery, I wandered here.
And here I saw Gabrielle, my beautiful child,
my love, my darling!"

The wan face lighted up with passionate
love as she looked at her who was kneeling
by her side.

"She believed me when I told her of my
sorrow. She comforted me with such sweet
words, that, they sank like healing balm into
my soul, as though an angel's voice had
spoken them. Do not take her from me!"

"Mother, do not fear," Gabrielle's soothing
voice whispered, "I will stay with you—did
I not promise it?"

"Gabrielle!" cried Miss Vaux. "Come
with me, and leave her. The tie that once
bound us to her she herself has severed for
ever: we have nothing further to do with
her. Gabrielle, come!"

"I cannot come! She is my mother. I
cannot leave her."

"And we are your sisters. To whom do
you owe most? We have watched over you
through your life; we have shielded you from
sorrow; we have loved you almost with the
love that she ought to have given you. You
have been the single joy that we have had
for years. Have you no love to give us
in return for all we have given you? Oh,
Gabrielle—my sister, I pray you!—I, who
am so little used to entreat any one, I pray
you for the sake of the love we have borne
you—or the sake of the honour that is still
left us—for the sake of all that you hold
sacred—come, come back with us!"

A low moan burst from the mother's lips;
for Gabrielle, weeping bitterly, rose from her
knees, and threw herself into her sister's
arms.

"Heaven bless you for this!" Miss Vaux
exclaimed; but, interrupting her in a broken
voice, Gabrielle cried, "You do not understand
me. I cannot return with you! No,
sister. Anything—anything else I will do,
but I cannot forsake her in her penitence!
Can you do it yourself? Oh, sister, will you
not take her home?"

"I will not!"

There was a long pause, broken once or
twice by the deep sobs that seemed bursting
the mother's heart. Then Miss Vaux spoke
again, earnestly, even imploringly:

"Gabrielle, I ask you once more, for the
last time, to return with me. Foolish child,
think what you are doing. You are bringing
down your father's dying curse upon your
head—you are piercing the hearts of those
who love you with new and bitter sorrow;
you are closing—wilfully closing—against
yourself the door that is still open to receive
you: you are making yourself homeless—a
wanderer—perhaps a beggar. Oh, my dear
sister Gabrielle, think once more—think of
all this!"

"Sister, spare me further: your words
wound me; but I have decided, and I
cannot return with you. My mother's home is
my home."

"Then I say no more," Miss Vaux
exclaimed, while her whole figure shook. "May
God forgive you for what you do this day!"

The door closed, and Gabrielle and her
mother were left alone.

Gently and lovingly Gabrielle raised her
from the ground, led her to her seat, and
tried to calm and soothe her—though she
wept herself the while—with cheerful, tender
words:

"Mother, are you not glad to have me with
you—your own little Gabrielle? You said it
would make you happy, and yet see how
you are weeping! Hush, mother dear, hush!
I will be always with you now, to nurse you,
and take care of you, and comfort you, and you
will get strong and well soon; and some day,
mother, some day perhaps their hearts will
soften, and they will forgive us both, and take
us home to them, and we will all live again
together, loving one another." And Gabrielle
tried to smile through the tears that were
falling still.

"My child, I am weak and selfish," the
mother said, "I should have told you to go
back to your home, and to leave me; but I
could not do it. Yet even now my heart is
reproaching me for what I have done. How
are we to live? My Gabrielle, you do not
know how I have struggled and laboured,
sometimes, only for a crust of bread!"

"Mother, you shall labour no more.
My sisters are very just: all that is mine,
they will give me. We will live on very
little; we will find out some little quiet
village, where no one will know who we are,
or where we come from, and there we will
rest together. I will never leave you more—
never more until death parts us."

She hung upon her mother's neck, kissing