Paule came to her and put her arm round the slender waist. Then clasping her quite close in the quiet shelter of the wood she murmured quickly, almost timidly, astonished at herself for daring to say what she did: “Don’t you know that Marcel loves you? He has given you all his heart. Will you consent to be his wife, Alice? He hopes for no happiness except from you alone.” They were both equally affected and both dropped their eyes to the dead leaves which lay at their feet. At the same moment they both looked up again, blushed, and with a graceful movement embraced each other, and burst into tears. Paule recovered herself first. She looked with new eyes at this exquisite being leaning on her shoulder, who without uttering a word had become her sister. Alice, meanwhile, a prey to delicious emotion, feared its force and thirsted to feel it always at her heart, accused herself for giving way to it and readily gave way. This first encounter with love made her see into the secret corners of her soul, still so unformed and child-like. Her heart unfolded like some rose-bud, which in the evening seems still closed and next morning one finds with its opening calyx wet with dew. “You will say ‘Yes’?” asked Paule softly. And in a voice as thin as a breath of air Alice at last whispered, “Yes.” Hand in hand they continued their walk, one listening to the happiness singing within her and the other forgetful of self, and tasting in all its fulness this joy which was not for her. “You are my sister,” said Paule, “and I love you. Marcel deserves to be happy. He has been so kind to us, I cannot tell you how kind. After my father’s death we lived through some dreadful times. But my brother, though so far away, helped us, with all his strength and resources.” Alice listened to this praise with conflicting emotions. Paule’s words brought an element of awkwardness into the conversation. Alice thought nothing of money and did not know its importance. But she could not imagine a love story without an appropriate setting. Ignorant of life, she had conceived a wrong idea of the relative importance of vital matters. And how indeed could she have met it in all its truth? These were but dim and fleeting impressions. Alice did not regret that she had said “Yes.” Marcel loved her, and dear Paule at her side spoke so kindly to her. Feeling the need, however, of reinforcing her courage, she questioned her friend about the future. “What must we do now?” “My mother will come to La Chênaie to ask for your hand. You must prepare your mother and father. Your mother adores you and surely wants only to make you happy. And M. Dulaurens will willingly listen to your mother.” The oak-trees which sheltered the two girls at this moment were so thick of foliage that no light could penetrate them. Alice had become suddenly thoughtful and awoke from her glowing love-dream to that reality whose approach she instinctively dreaded.