"Oh yes, I obey very well," said Pansy, with soft eagerness, almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh.
Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate and fair.
"I hope they always see that you wear gloves," she said in a moment. "Little girls usually dislike them."
"I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child answered.
"Very good, I will make you a present of a dozen."
"I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy demanded, with interest.
Madame Merle meditated a moment.
"Useful colours."
"But will they be pretty?"
"Are you fond of pretty things?"
"Yes; but—but not too fond," said Pansy, with a trace of asceticism.
"Well, they will not be too pretty," Madame Merle answered, with a laugh. She took the child's other hand, and drew her nearer; and then, looking at her a moment "Shall you miss mother Catherine?"
"Yes—when I think of her."
"Try, then, not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Madame Merle, "you will have another mother."
"I don't think that is necessary," Pansy said, repeating her little soft, conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers at the convent."
Her father's step sounded again in the ante-chamber, and Madame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came
