You've surely been loved."
Rose smiled and bit her lip. "I think that's it," she murmured. "I've
never cared for anybody--like that. At least, I don't think I have."
"'When in doubt, don't,'" resumed the other, taking refuge in a
platitude. "Is there any one of that faithful procession whom you
particularly regret?"
"No," answered Rose, truthfully.
"Love is like a vaccination," continued the little lady in grey, with
seeming irrelevance. "When it takes, you don't have to be told."
Her tone was light, almost flippant, and Rose, in her turn, wondered at
the woman and her marvellous self-control. At twenty-five, Madame
Bernard married a young French soldier, who had chosen to serve his
adopted country in the War of the Rebellion. In less than three months,
her gallant Captain was brought home to her--dead.
For a long time, she hovered uncertainly between life and death. Then,
one day, she sat up and asked for a mirror. The ghost of her former self
looked back at her, for her colour was gone, her hair was quickly
turning grey, and the light had vanished from her eyes.
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