"Mademoiselle," said Steinmetz earnestly, "I am an old man, and in my time I have dabbled pretty deeply in trouble. But taking it all around, even my life has had its compensations. And I have seen lives which, taken as a mere mortal existence, without looking to the hereafter at all, have been quite worth the living. There is much happiness in life to make up for the rest. But that happiness must be firmly held. It is so easily slipped through the fingers. A little irresolution--a little want of moral courage--a little want of self-confidence--a little pride, and it is lost. You follow me?" Maggie nodded. There was a great tenderness in her eyes--such a tenderness as, resting on men, may bring them nearer to the angels. Steinmetz laid his large hand over hers. "Mademoiselle," he went on, "I believe that the good God sent you along this lonely river in your boat. Paul leaves me to-morrow. His arrangements are to go to India and shoot tigers. He will sail in a week. There are things of which we never speak together--there is one name that is never mentioned. Since Osterno you have avoided meeting him. God knows I am not asking for him any thing that he would be afraid to ask for himself. But he also has his pride. He will not force himself in where he thinks his presence unwelcome." Steinmetz rose somewhat ponderously and stood looking down at her. He did not, however, succeed in meeting her eyes. "Mademoiselle," he said, "I beg of you most humbly--most respectfully--to come through the garden with me toward the house, so that Paul may at least know that you are here." He moved away and stood for a moment with his back turned to her, looking toward the house. The crisp rustle of her dress came to him as she rose to her feet. Without looking round, he walked slowly on. The path through the trees was narrow, two could not walk abreast. After a few yards Steinmetz emerged on to a large, sloping lawn with flower beds, and a long, low house above it. On the covered terrace a man sat writing at a table. He was surrounded by papers, and the pen in his large, firm hand moved rapidly over the sheet before him. "We still administer the estate," said Steinmetz, in a low voice. "From our exile we still sow our seed." They approached over the mossy turf, and presently Paul looked up--a strong face, stern and self-contained; the face of a man who would always have a purpose in life, who would never be petty in thought or deed. For a moment he did not seem to recognize them. Then he rose, and the pen fell on the flags of the terrace. "It is mademoiselle!" said Steinmetz, and no other word was spoken. Maggie walked on in a sort of unconsciousness. She only knew that they were all acting an inevitable part, written for them in the great libretto of life. She never noticed that Steinmetz had left her side, that she was walking across the lawn alone.