“I must expect the vengeance of the Perdreaux,” continued Jean‐Louis, “as well as of their friends, whose violent passions I know, and who will not leave me in peaceable possession of their secrets. Michou has discharged the workmen; apparently, they went off contented. But Isidore, meanwhile, received my letter; no doubt before this he has communicated it to his cut‐throat companions, and the easiest thing for all of them will be to get rid of me at the shortest notice.” “My God!” said Solange, “why didn’t you think of all that before writing the letter? At least, you need not have signed it.” “I thought of all that,” replied Jeannet, smiling; “but even if I had been sure of risking my life in saving Jeannette, I would not have stopped. Her father and mother preserved my existence, Solange, and therefore it belongs to them. And as for not signing such a letter, thank God! you think so because you are a woman, that you love me, and that you feel I am in danger; but if you were in my place, you would think as I do.” “My children,” said Mme. Luguet, “you are both right. But my advice is that just now you had better plan for the future than discuss the past.” “Tell us what shall be done, mother,” said Solange. “In the first place, Jean‐Louis must not return to the wood to‐night; isn’t that so?” “Don’t think of such a thing,” cried Jeannet, as he rose hastily from his chair. “Did I come here to hide?” “Be still,” said Solange with authority; “don’t be so proud. We all know you are brave, who, then, can accuse you of flying from danger? But courage does not consist in throwing yourself headlong in the midst of it, but in providing against it.” “I will return,” said Jeannet, “Michou expects me.” “You will not return, my child,” said Mme. Luguet. “I will direct you for one day; my age and friendship permit me. I order you to remain with us to‐night.” “But,” said Jean‐Louis, “tomorrow the danger will be still greater; and, my good mother, you surely cannot count on keeping me a prisoner?” “When you came in,” said the good woman, “Solange was asking my permission to leave home. It was very painful for me to decide, and I sought to gain time from the good God—a little time only, to become more courageous; for never will I be so bold as to refuse to give my child to the Lord. Well, what you have just related makes me think the good God has directed all with his own voice. My dear children, you will leave tomorrow.” Solange threw herself on her knees, and laid her head on her mother’s hands, which she kissed, weeping. Jean‐Louis turned pale. His courage, which prompted him to face the danger, and his desire to oblige his friends, struggled violently in his heart. “Listen to me,” said he. “I gave my word to Solange that I would accompany her; but circumstances have changed since then. Cannot Pierre take my place? They have gossiped about Solange and me, dear Mme. Luguet; what will they say when they hear we have gone off together?”