The torch began to flame, and its red light threw him out boldly. He seemed to have grown taller—no, it was not that, for Uncle Gaspard still towered above him, but he was stouter, and the way he carried himself had in it a new character and power. And the indescribable something in his face that no girl could read at a glance, the shaping and tone experience gives when one has been learning to rule his fellow-men and to depend upon himself. She was silent and a warm color played about her face. He took both hands, drew her nearer to him, and suddenly she was afraid of the intense personality. Her rosy lips quivered, her eyes drooped, her breath came rapidly. “Haven’t you a word of welcome for André?” asked Uncle Gaspard, surprised. “I was confused by the light, and—you are quite sure it is Monsieur Valbonais?” turning to her uncle. “For he seems to have changed mysteriously.” “And you have not changed at all. Nothing has changed. M. Denys, light your pipe and sit in the corner, and I will take this one. Ma’m’selle Renée, sit here in the middle.” He pushed the chair and placed her gently in it. “Now we can almost believe that I have not been away at all, only there is the great gladness of coming back.” “Has the time passed so quickly, monsieur?” There was the faintest suggestion of mischief in her tone. “Mademoiselle, you have not outgrown all your naughtiness, I perceive. You find a second meaning in my simple words. No, there have been days that seemed like months—last summer, when I hoped to return, when I was homesick and heartsick. But what are you to do when the kindest employer in the world begs you to stay and there is no one to take your place, unless matters go at a great loss?” “But New Orleans is gay and bright. And Madame Gardepier says the women are lovely, and there is music and light-heartedness everywhere.” “When you are in a close and dark office or out on the muddy, crowded, vile-smelling levees with men of every nation shouting and hustling and swearing all about you, and you have almost to fight to get your bidding done, you have no thought for pretty women. But a man cannot always choose. And my greatest grief is that I must go back or disappoint my very good friends.” “Oh!” with a toss of the head and a curve of the swelling lip that he longed to kiss. “Ma’m’selle, let us not talk about that now. There are pleasanter subjects—all our old friends—for through the day it has been business, business, until my head seemed in a whirl with it. M. Denys will tell you. And we had to go to supper to finish, as if there would not be another day. But it is so lovely here. And the pretty Madame Marchand is well, and the Renaud girls, and the Aubrys with their husbands, and Madame Gardepier with her little one! Ah, I shall have a fine time presently, when I get a little leisure!”