“Yes, you had snared a blackbird and were pulling out its feathers, and mad at the sight I rushed at you and struck you, and you let it go in your surprise. I hated you for that, Gerard, I did indeed.” “Serve me right, too.” “And you called me such names.” “Not Gabrielle?” he interposed. “No, and not mademoiselle,” she retorted laughing. “But cat, and beast, and fury, and everything, and you pulled my hair.” “That hair?” he asked, laughing again. “What sacrilege.” “Yes, this hair,” she nodded gaily. “Oh, it is no wonder that when they told me you were coming to--well, you know why--that I was frightened lest you should be just an older edition of that cruel little ugly horror.” “Ugly, too?” “Yes, ugly. You were not a bit good-looking even for a boy. I should never have guessed you were the same;” and then she put her finger to her lip in some dismay as if to check herself. “I think I am glad to have disappointed you.” “And do you think I have changed?” she asked, with a challenge in her eyes. “You are older.” “What, in fifteen years? How strange!” “Is it fifteen years since you saw that pleasant youth you have described?” “Is that to put off my question? Have I disappointed you as you have me?” “I had not even an idea of how beautiful you would be.” “Nay, if you flatter me, I shall not like it.” “It is no flattery--Gabrielle,” and the low earnest tone thrilled her with delight. She thought a moment and then, looking up, said simply as she smiled into his eyes-- “It is not unmaidenly, seeing why you have come to Morvaix, for me to say what pleasure such words give me, Gerard. Oh, I think I must be the happiest girl in all fair France to-day.” “Seeing why I have come?” he repeated questioningly. “Gerard!” The tone was one of reproach, and she looked troubled. “You have come for--for a purpose, haven’t you?” Her eyes were on the ground as she spoke hesitatingly. “Yes, and with God’s help, I will carry it through.” She looked up then, but the smile on her face faded quickly away as she seemed not to read in his eyes what she sought. “And your purpose is--what?” she asked, in a strange tone, very subdued, quiet and anxious. “Even to you I cannot tell it yet,” he answered. “Cannot tell it me, Gerard? But----” she broke off and repeated wonderingly: “‘Cannot tell it me--yet?’” “But you shall know it at the first moment I can open my lips, and from what I have learnt of you, I know your sympathy will be with me and it.” Gabrielle felt the colour leaving her cheeks. What could he mean? There must be some hindrance to the plan of their marriage. He had said nothing of this in his letters to her uncle--nor a word to her. “You have turned pale, mademoiselle. Are you ill?” he asked kindly, seeing the change in her.