Michel Voss perceived that it was of no use for him to carry on the argument. He entertained a half-formed idea that he did not quite understand the objections so strongly urged by his niece; that there was something on her mind that she would not tell him, and that there might be cruelty in urging the matter upon her; but, in opposition to this, there was his assured conviction that it was his duty to provide well and comfortably for his niece, and that it was her duty to obey him in acceding to such provision as he might make. And then this marriage was undoubtedly a good marriage--a match that would make all the world declare how well Michel Voss had done for the girl whom he had taken under his protection. It was a marriage that he could not bear to see go out of the family. It was not probable that the young linen-merchant, who was so well to do in the world, and who, no doubt, might have his choice in larger places than Granpere--it was not probable, Michel thought, that he would put up with many refusals. The girl would lose her chance, unless he, by his firmness, could drive this folly out of her. And yet how could he be firm, when he was tempted to throw his great arms about her, and swear that she should eat of his bread and drink of his cup, and be unto him as a daughter, till the last day of their joint existence. When she crept so close to him and pressed his arm, he was almost overcome by the sweetness of her love and by the tenderness of his own heart. 'It seems to me that you don't understand,' he said at last. 'I didn't think that such a girl as you would be so silly.' To this she made no reply; and then they began to walk down the hill together. They had walked half way home, he stepping a little in advance,--because he was still angry with her, or angry rather with himself in that he could not bring himself to scold her properly,--and she following close behind his shoulder, when he stopped suddenly and asked her a question which came from the direction his thoughts were taking at the moment. 'You are sure,' he said, 'that you are not doing this because you expect George to come back to you?' 'Quite sure,' she said, bearing forward a moment, and answering him in a whisper when she spoke. 'By my word, then, I can't understand it. I can't indeed. Has Urmand done anything to offend you?' 'Nothing, uncle.' 'Nor said anything?' 'Not a word; uncle. I am not offended. Of course I am much obliged to him. Only I don't love him.' 'By my faith I don't understand it. I don't indeed. It is sheer nonsense, and you must get over it. I shouldn't be doing my duty if I didn't tell you that you must get over it. He will be here again in another ten days, and you must have thought better of it by that time. You must indeed, Marie.'