CHAPTER XXXIX.
MORNING SUNSHINE.
"The lonely glory of a throne
May yet this lowly joy deserve;
Kings may make that a stepping-stone,
And change 'I reign' into 'I serve.'"
TWO or three weeks later Clémence sat alone one afternoon. A bright wood fire burned on the hearth, and on a little table near her lay a pile of needlework—garments for the poor. But just then she was occupied with a letter from her mother, written in happy unconsciousness of the sorrow which had fallen upon her dear ones; and she could not help a few tears which dropped quietly upon the page, full of questions and remarks about their little Rosebud.
While she was reading Ivan came in, with more brightness in his face and animation in his step than had been there since Christmas eve. But he saw the tears, and stooping down kissed her tenderly.
"What is it, m'amie?" he whispered.
"These letters, dear," she answered, looking up with the smile of welcome his entrance never failed to win from her. "My mother's is about our Rosebud." After a pause and a little sigh she added, "The only important news she tells us is that our friend M. de Sartines is dead."
"Indeed! I am very sorry."
"So am I, especially for Stéphanie. She has written to me
