“My father’s rescuer was a young man of Poitiers--the younger son of a good family--and his name was Louis Marie de Benseval.” I paused. I was indeed somewhat overcome by my own story, and more especially by the memories which it evoked. As for Mlle. de Chambray, she sat with her face so in the shadow that I could scarcely discern her features. She made no comment, only stirred slightly, and I saw her eyes shining up at me. “I fear I have been prolix,” I said. “I have wearied you. I will try to hasten----” “Please do not,” she broke in. “You have not wearied me. I wish to hear the whole story. But will you not sit down?” and she made a little inviting gesture. “No,” I said, resisting it. “I have not yet come to the difficult part. If I should sit there beside you I fear that my courage would fail me.” “As you will,” she murmured, and leaned still farther into the shadow. “The two became fast friends,” I continued. “Indeed, friend is scarcely the word with which to describe their affection--it is not strong enough. They were more than friends. Their attachment had a rare, abiding quality--whether they were apart or together, it was just the same. They determined to perpetuate it by knitting their two families into one. They agreed that should one of them have a son and the other a daughter, these two should be considered betrothed from the cradle. And it would seem that Nature, Providence, God, approved of this design, for it so fell out. “When I was ten years old my father was seized with a fever from which it was soon evident he could not recover. M. de Benseval hastened to him, bringing with him his daughter, a child of eight. We were betrothed beside my father’s bed. It was agreed that on the day that I was twenty-one I should set out from Beaufort to claim my bride. My father died blessing us, and very happy.” Again I paused, for my voice was no longer wholly steady. Nor did I relish the story I had yet to tell. But I nerved myself to do it. “After that I lived with my mother upon our estate at Beaufort--a small estate, but one which under my father’s management had sufficed for our support. At first everything went well; but a woman, however capable, is not a man, and my mother was more engrossed in her son than in her fields. So our fortunes dwindled from year to year, and the Revolution, which robbed us of our peasants, struck them the final blow. We were at the end of our resources, and a month ago my mother wrote to M. de Benseval, at Poitiers, stating our circumstances frankly and releasing him from his engagement. In reply came a terse note saying that his engagement was with the dead, not with the living, and so was doubly sacred; that on the day that I was twenty-one he would expect me to set out for Poitiers, where his daughter would be awaiting me.” “And then?” asked my companion in a voice which seemed a little tremulous. “Well, mademoiselle, yesterday I was twenty-one.”