“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. Aubrey Leigh will give one of his famous “Addresses to the People” on the last day of the year.  I should like to hear him, though my very slight knowledge of English would be rather against me in the comprehension of what he might say.  For all other news you must wait till we meet.  Expect me in Paris in a few days, and ask my Angela to rouse herself sufficiently to give her old father a smile of welcome.  My compliments to “Gys Grandit,” and to you the assurance of my devoted homage.  Pietro Sovrani.’”

The Princesse folded up the letter and looked wistfully at Angela.

“You will give him the smile of welcome he asks for, will you not, little one?” she asked.  “You are all he has in the world, remember!”

“I do remember,” murmured Angela.  “I know!”

“Aubrey and his wife are ’beginning work in real earnest’!” said Cyrillon.  “And how much their work will mean to the world!  More than the world can at present imagine or estimate!  It seems to be a settled thing that the value of great work shall never be recognised during the worker’s lifetime, but only afterwards—­when he or she who was so noble, so self-sacrificing, or so farseeing, shall have passed beyond the reach of envy, scorn and contumely, into other regions of existence and development.  The finest deeds are done without acknowledgment or reward, and when the hero or heroine has gone beyond recall, the whole world stands lamenting its blindness for not having known or loved them better.  Donna Sovrani”—­and his voice softened—­“will also soon begin again to work, like Aubrey and Sylvie, ‘in real earnest.’  Will she not?”

Angela raised her eyes, full of sadness, yet also full of light.

“Yes,” she said.  “I will!  I will work my grief into a glory if I can!  And the loss of world’s love shall teach me to love God more!”

Loyse D’Agramont embraced her.

“That is my Angela!” she said.  “That is what I wanted you to feel—­ to know—­for I too have suffered!”

“I know you have—­and I should have remembered it!” said Angela, penitently.  “But—­I have been frozen with grief—­paralysed in brain and heart, and I have forgotten so many things!” She trembled and closed her eyes for a moment,—­then went on—­“Give me a little time--a few more days!—­and I will prove that I am not ungrateful for your love—­” She hesitated, and then turning, gave her hand to Cyrillon,—­“or for your friendship.”