"Well, then, Tiennet," continued Thérence, with a valiant sincerity all her own, which made the difference between her and the reserved and timid Brulette, "I reveal nothing you did not know in telling you that before your visit to us last year I attached myself to a poor fellow, sick and sad in mind and body, very much as a mother is attached to her child. I did not then know he loved another girl, and he, seeing my regard for him, which I did not hide, had not the courage to tell me it was not returned. Why Joseph--for I can name him, and you see, dear friends, that I don't change color in doing so--why Joseph, whom I had so often entreated to tell me the causes of his grief, should have sworn to me it was nothing more than a longing for his mother and his own country, I do not know. He must have thought me base, and he did me great injustice; for, had he told me the truth, I myself would have gone to fetch Brulette without a murmur, and without making the great mistake of forming a low opinion of her which I did, and which I now confess, and ask her to pardon." "You did that long ago, Thérence, and there is nothing to pardon where friendship is." "Yes, dear," replied Thérence, "but the wrong which you forget, I remember, and I would have given the world to repair it by taking good care of Joseph, and showing him friendship and good-nature after you left us. Remember, friends, that I had never said or done a false thing; so that in my childhood, my father, who is a good judge, used to call me Thérence the Sincere. When I last saw you, on the banks of your own Indre, half-way to your village, I spoke privately with Joseph for a moment, begging him to return to us and promising there should be no change in my interest and care for his health and well-being. Why, then, did he disbelieve me in his heart; and why, promising with his lips to return (a lie of which I was not the dupe),--why did he contemptuously leave me forever, as though I were a shameless girl who would torment him with love-sick folly?" "Do you mean to say," I interrupted, "that Joseph, who stayed only twenty-four hours with us, did not return to your woods,--if only to tell you his plans and say good-bye? Since he left us that day we have heard nothing of him."