“My dear love, after this, I won’t leave you any more.” Ernest’s two children had left their play and had drawn near to look at me. A little boy, about three years old, alone had remained on the grass; he looked at us with a timid air. Suddenly my daughter left my knee and ran to the little boy, took his hand, and led him to me, saying: “Come, Eugène, and kiss papa.” I had guessed that it was he. I examined him closely: he had pretty chestnut hair, lovely eyes, a pink and white complexion, and a gentle expression; he looked very much like Eugénie; that was all that I could discover in his features. Doubtless my face had grown stern, for the child seemed to be afraid to come forward. I could not help smiling, however, when he said to me with a comical gravity: “Good-morning, papa.” I kissed him on the cheek, but sighed as I did so, with a heavy weight at my heart. Then I put him down and he returned at once to the grass. It seemed that the poor little fellow noticed that I had kissed him against my will. I took my daughter on my knee again; she jumped about and clapped her hands for joy, saying: “Now, when mamma comes back, I shall be happy; she will come soon, won’t she, papa? Why didn’t you bring her back? She told me that she was going to get you.” I turned my eyes away and made no reply. Ernest said to me in an undertone: “My friend, you forbade us to mention your wife to you; but you must expect now that Henriette will mention her very often. You certainly would not want your daughter to cease to think of her mother?” “No, of course not; besides, I am more reasonable now than I used to be. I am now curious to learn--Henriette, go and play with your little friends.” My daughter went back to her brother and Ernest’s children. I sat between Marguerite and Ernest and said to them: “Tell me what has occurred since I went away, and how it happened that my daughter was placed in your charge.” “Yes, we will tell you all about it,” said Marguerite. “But first--I say, Ernest, have you told him?” Ernest smiled but said nothing. “What is it?” I inquired. “We are married!” cried Marguerite, jumping up and down on the bench. “It is all settled--three months ago. Ah! I am not afraid of his leaving me now; I am his wife.” She ran to Ernest, took his head in her hands, and kissed him; he extricated himself, saying: “Stop! you are rumpling my shirt.” “You see, Monsieur Henri, he is less agreeable already!--Oh! I only said that in fun.” “My dear friends, you have done well to be married, since that was your wish. I do not think that you will be any happier than you were, but I hope that you will be as happy. You have pledges of happiness.” I kissed Marguerite and shook hands with Ernest, who said: