"Does Sylvie in all her new happiness, actually
think of me so much and so often?"
"Indeed she does!" replied the Princess D'Agramont. "Chere enfant,
you must not look at all the world through the cloud of one sorrow!
We all love you!--we are all anxious to see you quite yourself
again!"
Angela's eyes filled with tears as they rested on her friend's
kindly face, a face usually so brilliant in its animated expression,
but now saddened and worn by constant watching and fatigue.
"You are far too good to me," she said in a low voice--"And I am
most unworthy of all your attention."
Loyse D'Agramont paid no heed to this remark, but resumed reading
the Prince Sovrani's epistle--
"Let me see! . . . Sylvie--yes--here it is--'She telegraphs to you
every day for news, which is apparently the only extravagance she is
guilty of just now. She and her husband have taken rooms in some
very poor neighbourhood of London, and are beginning work in real
earnest. Our good Felix and his cherished foundling have been with
them into many wretched homes, cheering the broken-hearted,
comforting the sick, and assuring all those who doubt it that there
is a God in spite of priest-craft,--and I have received an English
paper which announces that Mr.
Pages:
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872