of her son, which she thinks to be in peril; while my grandmother is only annoyed at what she considers a social degradation. In the eyes of the one, Protestantism is heretical; in those of the other, it is "bourgeoise." My grandmother fancies that Henri was demoralized by his campaign under the Emperor's standard, whereas Henri himself says that it was only then he learned what religion meant. I cannot profess to understand the matter, not being myself religious; but there is certainly a curious connection, not to say confusion, between saintliness and heresy. Henri is religious—he is "converted;" yet he is called a heretic, and mourned over by your excellent mother-in-law as next to an infidel, and on the highroad to perdition. He has a fast friend in little Stéphanie, who takes his part in season and out of season. I am rather glad of it for the child had almost ceased to be amusing, Madame de Krudener tamed her so effectually.'—You must write to your mother, Clémence," said Ivan, laying down the letter, "and pray her to be tender and patient with Henri."
"That will be needless," Clémence answered. "To my mother Henri will be as a sick child who needs a fourfold share of tenderness. I know her well. Fondly as she clung to him before, he will be closer than ever to her now.—One thing is certain, Ivan. We can no longer hope for a visit from her next summer. Until Henri's education as an architect is finished, no power on earth will move her from his side. Our only hope is that hereafter, through the kindness of the Emperor, some work may be found for him in this country."
"It shall be found," said Ivan, in his bright, confident way. "Here, at least, religious differences create no prejudice. A man may profess what creed he pleases, so that he does not outrage public order, or make proselytes from the national Church. We Russians are very tolerant."
"Is not toleration sometimes only indifference under a mask?" asked Clémence. "Ah, when will men learn the
