He was sitting now on the old, worn steps leading to the second terrace. His right arm rested on the step above, close by his hostess's dainty little feet. The air was sunny and warm, and sweet with the scent of roses. He wondered dreamily what had become of the world---- [Illustration: She smiled softly at his words. G. G. Manton] A little breeze came and scattered the rose leaves in her lap--the soft, fragrant heap that she had gathered for _pot-pourri_--and roused the man. He stooped to gather them up, but she stayed him. "There are plenty more," she said. "Yes," he said; "what a lovely old garden it is!" He watched the pink deepen in her cheek, and the little dimples come and go as she smiled softly at his words. Then he sighed. "My arm is better," he said. "I"--doubtfully--"must go to-day." "Must you? Will you not stay a little longer? It"--wistfully--"is nice to have a guest." He looked up at her with his blue eyes full of love. "It is good of you to say so," he said earnestly. "Ancelles cannot offer much," she said, with a little stately air, "but it offers you a true welcome, monsieur, and one that will never fail you so long as you will stay with us." "I have never," he said slowly, "had such a true welcome before." His eyes made her restless. She crushed the rose leaves in her hand, and scattered them abroad. He picked them up and kept them. "Do you never wonder," he said, "how I came to fall into your garden?" "We are only glad that monsieur so fell, except for the sprained arm," answered the little mistress of Ancelles. "I heard your voice," he said, looking up into her face. "I stood and listened, and then--I wanted to see the owner of the voice, and I climbed to the top of the wall and then--I fell." "I thought only schoolboys behaved so," she said, but her pretty lips parted and her eyes smiled, in spite of herself. "If I had been a schoolboy I should not have fallen." "Why?" "Because a schoolboy does not lose his head as I did, mademoiselle." "And your footing, monsieur." "The one was an outcome of the other." She looked away across the sweet, smiling sunshine. "Monsieur"--suddenly bending her gaze upon his face--"how came you to lose your head?" He glanced at her in swift surprise. He was no chicken-heart, yet something in the proud little face made him hesitate. But he was proud, too. "Because directly my eyes fell upon you I loved you," he said steadily. Stéphanie started to her feet. "Monsieur, you outrage my hospitality," she said haughtily. He got up and faced her. "Never!" he cried. "I did not mean to say it--yet, but----" "You insult me, monsieur!" "Pardon me, mademoiselle"--his tone was cool as hers now--"but the offer of a man's heart and home can never be an insult!" "An honour, perhaps?" mockingly. "It is at least his best, mademoiselle." "And seemly within a two-days' acquaintanceship, monsieur?" Her pride, the haughty little smile curling her pretty lip, maddened him.