"But listen to me," she interjected with breaking tones; "I know as surely as I know--as I know the face of my child, that the youth in me is dead. My summer came--and went--long ago. No, no, you do not understand--I would not make you unhappy. I must live only to make my child happy. That love has not been marred." "And I must be judge of what is for my own happiness. And for yours--if I thought my love would make you unhappy for even one day, I should not offer it. I am your lover, but I am also your friend. Had it not been for you I might have slept in a drunkard's grave in Jersey. Were it not for you, my bones would now be lying in the Vendee. I left my peasants, I denied myself death with them to serve you. The old cause is gone. You and your child are now my only cause--" "You make it so hard for me," she broke in. "Think of the shadows from the past always in my eyes, always in my heart--you cannot wear the convict's chain without the lagging footstep afterwards." "Shadows--friend of my soul, how should I dare come to you if there had never been shadows in your life! It is because you--you have suffered, because you know, that I come. Out of your miseries, the convict's lagging step, you say? Think what I was. There was never any wrong in you, but I was sunk in evil depths of folly--" "I will not have you say so," she interrupted; "you never in your life did a dishonourable thing." "Then again I say, trust me. For, on the honour of a Vaufontaine, I believe that happiness will be yours as my wife. The boy, you see how he and I--" "Ah, you are so good to him!" "You must give me chance and right to serve him. What else have you or I to look forward to? The honours of this world concern us little. The brightest joys are not for us. We have work before us, no rainbow ambitions. But the boy--think for him---" he paused. After a little, she held out her hand towards him. "Good-bye," she said softly. "Good-bye--you say good-bye to me!" he exclaimed in dismay. "Till--till to-morrow," she answered, and she smiled. The smile had a little touch of the old archness which was hers as a child, yet, too, a little of the sadness belonging to the woman. But her hand-clasp was firm and strong; and her touch thrilled him. Power was there, power with infinite gentleness. And he understood her; which was more than all. He turned at the door. She was standing very still, the parchment with the great seals yet in her hand. Without speaking, she held it out to him, as though uncertain what to do with it. As he passed through the doorway he smiled, and said: "To-morrow--to-morrow!" EPILOGUE