“I will make it so,” I answered. “You mean it?” she said with unaffected joy. “On my honour, Edmee, and on yours. Dare you give me your hand?” “Certainly,” she said. She held out her hand to me; but she was still trembling. “You have been forming good resolutions, then?” she said. “I have been forming such resolutions,” I replied, “that you will never have to reproach me again. And now, Edmee, when you return to your room, please do not bolt your door any more. You need no longer be afraid of me. Henceforth I shall only wish what you wish.” She again fixed on me a look of amazement. Then, after pressing my hand, she moved away, but turned round several times to look at me again, as if unable to believe in such a sudden conversion. At last, stopping in the doorway, she said to me in an affectionate tone: “You, too, must go and get some rest. You look tired; and for the last two days you have seemed sad and very much altered. If you do not wish to make me anxious, you will take care of yourself, Bernard.” She gave me a sweet little nod. In her big eyes, already hollowed by suffering, there was an indefinable expression, in which distrust and hope, affection and wonder, were depicted alternately or at times all together. “I will take care of myself; I will get some sleep; and I will not be sad any longer,” I answered. “And you will work?” “And I will work--but, you, Edmee, will you forgive me for all the pain I have caused you? and will you try to like me a little?” “I shall like you very much,” she replied, “if you are always as you are this evening.” On the morrow, at daybreak, I went to the abbe’s room. He was already up and reading. “Monsieur Aubert,” I said to him, “you have several times offered to give me lessons. I now come to request you to carry out your kind offer.”