‘Yes, it is hemlock,’ he said, half to himself; ‘I did not know it could be grown here. Some day, Mademoiselle,’ he said, turning to Miss Twexby and walking back to the house with her, ‘I will ask you to let me have some of the roots of that plant to make an experiment with.’ ‘As much as you like,’ said the fair Martha, amiably; ‘it’s a nasty smelling thing. What are you going to make out of it?’ ‘Nothing particular,’ returned Vandeloup, with a yawn, as they entered the house and stopped at the door of Pierre’s room. ‘I’m a bit of a chemist, and amuse myself with these things.’ ‘You are clever,’ observed Martha, admiringly; ‘but here’s that man’s room--we didn’t give him the best’--apologetically--‘as miners are so rough.’ ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Vandeloup, eagerly, as she turned to go, ‘I see there are a few blossoms of hemlock left in your flower there,’ touching it with his finger; ‘will you give them to me?’ Martha Twexby stared; surely this was the long-expected come at last--she had secured a lover; and such a lover--handsome, young, and gallant,--the very hero of her dreams. She almost fainted in delighted surprise, and unfastening the flowers with trembling fingers, gave them to Gaston. He placed them in a button-hole of his flannel coat, then before she could scream, or even draw back in time, this audacious young man put his arm round her and kissed her virginal lips. Miss Twexby was so taken by surprise, that she could offer no resistance, and by the time she had recovered herself, Gaston had disappeared into Pierre’s room and closed the door after him. ‘Well,’ she said to herself, as she returned to the bar, ‘if that isn’t a case of love at first sight, my name ain’t Martha Twexby,’ and she sat down in the bar with her nerves all of a flutter, as she afterwards told a female friend who dropped in sometimes for a friendly cup of tea. Gaston closed the door after him, and found himself in a moderately large room, with one window looking on to the garden, and having a dressing-table with a mirror in front of it. There were two beds, one on each side, and on the farthest of these Pierre was sleeping heavily, not even Gaston’s entrance having roused him. Going over to him, Vandeloup touched him slightly, and with a spring the dumb man sat up in bed as if he expected to be arrested, and was all on the alert to escape. ‘It’s only I, my friend,’ said Gaston, in French, crossing over to the other bed and sitting on it. ‘Come here; I wish to speak to you.’ Pierre rose from his sleeping place, and, stumbling across the room, stood before Gaston with downcast eyes, his shaggy hair all tossed and tumbled by the contact with the pillow. Gaston himself coolly relit his cigarette, which had gone out, threw his straw hat on the bed, and then, curling one leg inside the other, looked long and keenly at Pierre.