Marguerite’s head drooped, and if the light had been sufficient, the young man might have seen a blush steal over her face. “It is partly that I have memories, and some one else comes here that I care for.” “Some one that you care for, and come to meet?” The young man spoke sternly, and he drew back from the drooping young creature a little, as if something had stung him. She lifted her eyes to his in shrinking astonishment. “Who is this person?” he asked. “I—I must not tell. He does not like people to know.” “_He?_ Did you say he?” “Yes, I said he; but that was not speaking his name.” “And you come here nights to meet this man?” “Yes, but he does not wish any one to be told.” Marguerite saw that something had offended her companion, and answered his questions with timid hesitation; but her eyes pleaded with him all the time. “You steal away from home, Marguerite, when the streets of Paris are full of dangers, and come to this lonely spot only to meet a man whose name you dare not speak? Is this the truth?” “Yes, but—but I have another reason.” “Another reason, Marguerite?” Marguerite’s voice sank almost to a whisper, as she answered, “The memory I spoke of, Monsieur.” The young man started, and his eyes flashed. “You mean this, Marguerite—you have not forgotten that one hour when your heart beat against mine?” “How could I forget?” “Yet you come here to meet another man.” A little joyous laugh broke from the girl. St. Just could see her eyes sparkle in the moonlight. “Why not?” she said, “since the man is my own father.” “Your father—the prisoner?” “I can trust you with his secret; perhaps you will even help me to protect him for there is danger.” “Especially when heedless wanderers send rocks crashing down upon him,” said St. Just. Marguerite shuddered. “I couldn’t help screaming, it frightened me dreadfully,” she said. “Not more than it frightened me,” answered the young man, whose good-nature had entirely returned. “It was a loose stone that gave way under my boot, and almost carried me down with it—a blessed stone I shall always think; for it brought you out of the darkness, the only lovely thing, I do believe, those walls ever gave forth.” “But for that I should have kept out of sight, and gone home heavy-hearted.” “Why heavy-hearted, Marguerite?” “Because it was impossible to see you where I sat. I never should have found courage to come into the light, and should have missed a great happiness, without knowing what it was.” The young man bent his eyes upon her with a look of tender admiration, that brought the blushes to her cheek, and weighed down her soft eyes till she stood before him like a child rebuked. “Then it was not altogether that other person, whom I was almost jealous of,” said the young man, after gazing upon that sweet face in silence. “You saved my life, and tried to save him!” faltered the young creature; and gratitude is a sweet feeling that haunts one so.