“Yes,” he said, looking down at her upturned face. “The tide is just right now, and this fair wind must not be lost. It will be a fine run under this moon; and Pierre has the new boat over to-night.” “It _is_ a good night,” she assented, peering through the open door with a gesture of gay inquiry; “and how sweet the apple-blossoms smell! Have you as good air as this, Monsieur Grande, on those western rivers of yours, or at Trois Pistoles?” As she did not turn her head or seem to require an answer, I made none. And, indeed, I was spared the necessity, for Anderson intervened with matter of his own. “Come down to the gate with me, won’t you?” I heard him beg in a low voice. But for some reason Mademoiselle was not disposed to be kind that night. She drew back, and looked down pointedly at her dainty embroidered moccasins. “Oh,” she cried lightly and aloud, with a tantalizing ring in her voice, “just think how wet the path is!” Anderson turned away with a disappointed air, whereupon she reached out her hand imperiously for him to kiss. Then she waved him a gay _bon voyage_, and came back into the room with a quick lightness of step which seemed like laughter in itself. Her eyes were a dancing marvel, with some strange excitement. “Monsieur,” she began, coming straight toward me. But I just then awoke to my purpose. “A thousand pardons, mademoiselle and madame!” I cried, springing to my feet and hastening to the door. “I will be back in two moments; but I have a word for Monsieur Anderson before he goes.” That I should interrupt her in this way, and rush off when she was about to speak to me, fetched a sudden little cloud of astonishment over Yvonne’s face. But I would not be delayed. I made haste down the path and caught Anderson before he reached the gate. He paused with an air of genial surprise. “Your pardon, monsieur,” said I; “but with your permission I will accompany you a few steps, as I have something to say to you.” “I am glad to have your company, monsieur,” said he, with a manner that spoke sincerity. “Are you?” said I abruptly. “Well, somehow I take your words as something more than the thin clink of compliment. I like you—I liked you the moment my eyes fell upon you.” His face flashed into a rare illumination, and without a word he held out his hand. I could not but smile responsively, though I thrust my hand behind my back and shook my head. “Wait!” said I. “I want to say to you that—I love—I love Mademoiselle de Lamourie!” His face clouded a little, and he withdrew his hand, but not angrily. “We are very much of one mind in that, I assure you,” he said. “The very ground she walks upon is sacred to me,” I continued. He smiled ever so little at the passion of my speech, but answered thoughtfully: “It is but natural, I suppose. I do not think we will quarrel upon that score, monsieur.”