Presently Marsac spoke timidly: “Mademoiselle, I recall some words of that she-devil, Madame Fleury. She said you had declared you would commit suicide, or--or--marry me, if--Tell me, what did you mean?” “Just what I said,” answered Delphine, with a beautiful blush. “Did you mean that either fate was equally dreadful?” “No.” “Or, perhaps, that--I have a second thought, but I am afraid to mention it.” “Second thoughts are always best,” demurely replied Delphine. And then there was a scene that would have broken the heart of a Platonist. A few murmured words, a hand-clasp--and Delphine lay in Marsac’s arms. A bird was singing in a tree outside the window, and a bird also sang in their two happy hearts. So deep was their ecstasy that they did not hear steps approach, nor the curtain softly drawn, and they were wakened from their dream in Paradise by a shout of laughter. Fontaine and Claire, Uncle Maurice and Monsieur Duval, were laughing uproariously, and gazing at the two apostles of platonic love, the relentless enemies of matrimony,--Marsac with his arm round Delphine’s waist, and his handsome head almost touching her bright hair. Old Duval grunted out one word,-- “Plato!” “Let Plato go to the devil!” cried Marsac. “If ever I meet the old scoundrel on the other side of the Styx, I promise to kick him all over the lower regions for having deprived me for one hour of the sweet knowledge of Delphine’s love.” “Hurrah!” cried Uncle Maurice. “To perdition with the rascal Plato!” “He is there already, I hope,” shouted Fontaine, dancing in his delight. “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! Marsac loves and is beloved!” “And I can tell you one thing,” interrupted Monsieur Duval, with ponderous solemnity, “that Marsac is not such a fool after all!” [Illustration]