"A flower for your thoughts, Paul," said Helene, quietly. "My thoughts," replied Paul, with rather a forced laugh, "are not worth a flower." Helene seemed struck by the tone, and she bowed her head and blushed. "Helene," said Paul, in a low, hushed, and almost choking tone, "this has been too much; the cup has at last overflowed. I was wrong, I was very wrong to be near you so much, and it has ended as I should have expected. I love you, Helene! I feel it, and I must away and see you no more. I have acted unwisely--I have acted improperly." "And why should you not love me, Paul?" replied Helene, with a great effort, but so faintly none else but a lover could have heard. "Are you not Albert's affianced wife?" continued Paul, gravely. "At last I can explain that which fear of being mistaken has made me never say before. I and Albert were never affianced, never could be, for I could not love him." "Helene! Helene!" cried Paul, passionately, "why spoke you not two years ago? I said he should find his cousin, his friend, and his affianced wife when he came back, and I must keep my word." "True, true--but Paul, he could not have heard you. But you are right--you are right." "Let me know all," said the young man, moodily, "but for this unfortunate accident." "Paul, you have been to me more than a brother and I will be just toward you. Influenced by this mistake you clearly did not care more for me than a friend, and what else has made me ill, and pale, and gloomy but shame, because--" "Because what?" asked the young man, eagerly. "Because, under the circumstances in which I was placed, I had let my heart lean where it could find no support." No man could hear such a confession unmoved, and Paul was half wild with delight; but he soon checked himself, and, gravely rising, took Helene's hand respectfully. "But I have been wrong to ask you this until Albert gives me back my word." At this instant a heavy step was heard, the clanking of spurs and arms on the graveled way, and now a tall cavalry officer of rank, preceded by a woman-servant running, was seen coming toward them. Both trembled--old Godard was asleep--and stood up, for both recognized Albert de Clery. "Ah! ah! my friend," cried the soldier, gayly; "I find you at last, Helene, my dear cousin. Let me embrace you! Eh! how is it? Still mademoiselle, or are you madam by this time? Paul, my good friend, give me your hand again. But come into the house. I have brought my wife to show you--an Italian, a beauty, and an heiress. How do you do, Papa Godard?" "Hum--ah! I was asleep. Ah! Citizen Gracchus--Monsieur Albert, I mean--glad to see you." "Guide me to the house," continued the soldier, "my wife is impatient to see you. Give me your arm, Papa Godard; follow, cousin, and let us talk of old times." One look, one pressure of the hand, and arm-in-arm they followed, happy in reality for the first time for two years.