Summer passed and the foliage glowed and faded. Indian summer came, like a flower flung back by a band of revelers as they danced madly and merrily away; then the nights became crisp and frosty, and the day arrived when he said to Diâne as they sat watching the passing of the wild geese: “I saw the geese yesterday; I saw them the day before; to-day--to-morrow, perhaps--soon I must follow. I must leave the hills.” * * * * * She turned to him quickly with a look and gesture of startled bewilderment. He leaned forward and laid his hand on hers. “Look at me, Diâne--straight in my eyes as I talk to you. You can come with me. Think of it. Away together to see more beautiful things, away to the southward with the wild geese, till the cold is gone, then to rivers and lakes and mountains again. We shall be together all the days--always; we shall watch the sunrise and sunset together; we shall stand before the priest and he shall send us away man and wife. Do you know why people marry, Diâne? Because they want each other as I want you, to have against all others--because they love. Do you know what I mean? Can you want me like that, Diâne?” As he bent nearer to her she felt the hand clasping hers tighten, and the blood throbbing in his fingers. For a long time they sat and her gaze did not falter. The companionship of the weeks had changed, and she felt a new knowledge and a new joy, indefinable yet overwhelming. Then slowly she answered him. “Yes, I want you like that. I know what you mean. But--there is more. I cannot tell what it is; perhaps I know not the words. Can you say it?” “No, Diâne, sweetheart, only that it is love, and no one can tell what it is. It is like life, we can only live it, dear.” “Then we will live it together, you and I,” she said. And she listened to Love’s old tale, not with blushes, not with downcast eyes, but with face and eyes lifted to her lover with a glad new light in them. And he said not that the world was well lost for love--the world was forgotten. * * * * * They went hand in hand down the hillside, straight to the priest’s door. The old man wept with remorse, and blamed himself for neglected duty, while Diâne stood in silent distress. At last, falling on her knees by his side, she pressed his fingers to her lips and pleaded. “Ah, _mon père_, _mon père_, you hurt me so. Is it you do not now love your little Diâne? Look at the others in the parish; you have blessed them and let them go away together, and you did not weep. I love you, _mon père_, but I must go, I must go. Let me go like the rest.”