And—Barbe? He was much interested in her and had a secret sympathy with her. Her eyes had confessed to him that her marriage had not been satisfactory. If he stood quite alone, perhaps that might be the ending presently, but it was no plan of his now, no desire, even. Ah, Renée, you did not know what an unconscious rival you were! Barbe understood the situation much better, but she had a woman’s wisdom. It had all passed through his mind like a flash. “My little dear,” he said, toying with the soft hair, “set your heart at rest. I had not thought of marrying Barbe. And I could never give you up.” “But—if you were going to be happier——” “I am quite an old fellow now. I like my own way. A smoke in the chimney corner is my delight, and a little girl who sits there weaving pictures and adventures in the blaze. I am happy enough.” Her heart gave a great bound. How could she help delighting in the confession! But that was selfish again. She would hold this exquisite pleasure on sufferance. “Yes, I am happy enough at present. But I should like my little girl to marry some one who could be a son to me in my old age, who would not want to take her away, and we would keep step together when we turned the summit of the hill and were going down the decline. Only I shall have to sit on the top a good while waiting for you, there are so many years between.” There was almost a merry sound in his voice. “And now is the unhappiness all gone?” pressing her fondly to his side. “There is the shame and regret for naughtiness. Have I troubled you a good deal?” in a repentant tone. “It would have been worse if you were really ill.” “I almost made myself so. I did not think that it might cause you anxiety. You see, I was only considering myself and heaping up sorrow where there was no real sorrow.” “But you will not do it any more?” “No, not any more,” she answered, with exquisite tenderness. “And now shall we go in? What do you suppose Mère Lunde will say? And see, it is quite dark. There are two stars.” All above them was the vault of deepest blue, resting on the tree-tops or the vague, far distance where all was indistinguishable. The river lapped along, some night birds gave a shrill cry, and far off a whippoorwill was repeating his mournful lay. “Come.” He lifted her up in his strong arms and swung her around. The door stood wide open, framing in a vivid picture of the hearth fire, the big empty chair, Mère Lunde bending over some cookery. Every year her shoulders grew more round and her head was almost hidden between them. Renée seemed to herself like one in a dream. She would not exult in this new possessorship. She would keep meek and lowly, remembering her indulgence in sinful feelings, her doubt and distrust. “What has kept you so?” cried Mère Lunde. “The fish has dried to a crisp. And one never knows. It may be Indians or wild animals——” “Nothing worse than sitting in the arbor, talking.”