"Zenobie!" he exclaimed, as if with a sudden impulse, "it is useless--I must yield!" "Imprudent man!" replied madame, keeping up the little farce with great vigour; "do you forget our miserable means?" "I forget nothing. We must stint ourselves--I know it. Adolphe and Octavie must suffer--I know it. What then? When friendship and compassion call, I cannot shut my heart. Mademoiselle, you have conquered. Remain." He spoke with a grandly tragic air. Therese relieved, astonished, all at once, could not credit her ears. It seemed impossible that the little man should assert himself in this manner against his wife, who cast up her hands, and cried out again at his imprudence. She tried to murmur thanks, but M. Roulleau, in his unwonted energy, waved them aside. "There is one point," he went on, "in which I am sure mademoiselle's delicacy of feeling will unite with our own. It would desolate Mme. Roulleau and myself, were our admirable M. Deshoulieres to have any idea of the difficulties this little arrangement may entail upon us. Whatever the world may say, he has not the means to assist as his generous heart would desire, yet without a question he would insist upon doing so. What then? The contest would lacerate us, we should not consent; mademoiselle would again have to seek a home. No, no, our friends may blame us--bah! one must follow impulse sometimes!" "How good you are to do this!" Therese cried out gratefully. She had a generous heart, and it smote her for not having sufficiently valued the little man. When the two had gone away, monsieur still heroic, and madame injured, she felt as if a great dread had gone with them. Her heart sang a little song without words--a song all about Fabien, and constancy, and meeting. Wonderful things grew up before her; sober people would have laughed or cried, as the case might be, could they have heard her music. Therese was in that enchanter's castle, wherein most of us wander for a little while, at some time or other, listening to the songs which are never sung so sweetly elsewhere. CHAPTER FIVE. "Lo, as some innocent and eager maiden Leans o'er the wistful limit of the world, Dreams of the glow and glory of the distance, Wonderful wooing and the grace of tears, Dreams with what eyes and what a sweet insistance Lovers are waiting in the hidden years." P.W.H. Myers. ------------------------------------------------------------------------