THE AMERICAN
nothing but a weary old woman in my quiet corner, but one of us poor things here may understand another, and I don't think I could ever mistake the Countess. I received her in my arms when she came into the world, and her first wedding-day was the saddest of my life. She owes it to me to show me another and a brighter. If you 'll but hold on fast, sir—and you look as if you would—I think we may see it."
Newman had listened to this slow, plain, deliberate speech, the first evidently of much waiting and wishing, with as hushed and grateful a pleasure as he had ever had for some grand passage at the opera. "Why, my dear madam, I just love you for your encouragement. One can't have too much, and I mean to hold on fast—you may bet your life on that. And if Madame de Cintré does see her way you must just come and live with her."
The old woman looked at him with grave lifeless eyes. "It may seem a heartless thing to say, sir, when one has been forty years in a house, but I promise you I should like to leave this place."
"Why, it's just the time to promise," said Newman with ingenuity. "After forty years one wants a big change. That's what I'm going in for," he smiled.
"You're very kind indeed, sir,"—and this faithful servant dropped another curtsey and seemed disposed to retire. She moved slowly, however, and gave while she lingered a dim joyless smile. Newman was disappointed, and his fingers stole so impatiently to his waistcoat-pocket that his informant
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