“Oh, no, it is not that! No one is so dear. And if I lost you—” Oh, she did not mean to say it, and stopped in her slow pacing. “You are not likely to lose me. Who has been filling your head with nonsense?” His tone was a little sharp. “No one is to blame. It was all my fault. I have been selfish and grudging and”—it burst out vehemently—“jealous!” He smiled, and was glad the purple gray of the waning light would not betray it to her wounding. It was the old story, Barbe Guion again. “My dear little girl—” he began with infinite tenderness, clasping his strong arm around her. “I want to tell you,” she interrupted hurriedly, “it is right, and just now I have the courage. I don’t mean ever to be so selfish again. It is wicked and ungrateful, and if anything can make you happier, I shall—try to rejoice in it.” And he knew she swallowed over a great lump in her throat. He was deeply touched as well. “It is very wicked and selfish, but I couldn’t bear to think of your loving any one else, and when Madame Gardepier came back so pretty and attractive, and—and you liked her so, it made me very miserable. I did not want her to come here to be mistress, to have your love, to be first everywhere, but I know now how odious and hateful it was, and I am sorry, when you have always been so good to me. And, Uncle Gaspard, if you want to marry Barbe and bring her here and be happy with her, I will be content and not envy her for your sake——” She was sobbing softly then. He had his arm around her and led her through the open gate to the little arbor of wild grape vines and honeysuckle that was always in bloom, a nest of fragrance now that the dew had begun to fall. He drew her very close to him and let her sob out her sorrow and penitence. How simply heroic she was to give up a part of the best thing in her life, for he knew, as he had believed before, that Valbonais’s love had not found the path to her heart. “I was so miserable,” she went on tremulously, “and I thought I would go to the church and pray as I used, when I asked God to send you back. Then I met the good father. And now I am going to begin. I shall not be unhappy any more, at least I shall strive against it. And I want you—yes,” catching her breath, “I want you to have whatever pleases you best.” For a moment or two so deep was his emotion he could not steady his own voice. And as he held her there, felt the beating of her heart, the agitation of her slim figure, the sobs she was trying to control, a passion of tenderness swept over him and almost a desire to claim her as his and let her rest henceforth in the proud security of entire love. Yes, she would marry him if he said the word. But much as she loved him it would never be that highest of all wifely love. She was still a child, and he was more than double her age. He stood in the place of a father, and there would be a question if the legal relationship would not be a bar in the sight of the Church.