"I will tell Roulleau to redouble his exertions. You may be sure M. Saint-Martin will not expatriate himself without from time to time making inquiries. Unless, indeed, he is a second Diogenes." "He was not like Diogenes, at all," said Therese, simply. "Oh, monsieur, you have made me so much happier!" When she had spoken, the cruelty of her words struck her. He was thinking of her, caring for her, and she was taken up only by her own trouble. The contrast was something new to her: as it made itself felt, she reddened painfully, and the tears rushed into her eyes. "Forgive me," she said, tremblingly, "I--I--" "Are we not to be friends?" he said, with a kind, steadfast look. "And for what are friends good, unless it be to help one another?" "But--" she stopped. "But what? Do you think what I have said should prevent me from helping you? Child, child, we learn many things as life goes on. What I told you is true--I have never loved before, I hoped I never should love; I believed I should go through the world, and do the work God put before me alone; I desired nothing more. It came upon me unawares. I do not think that there can have been a time when I did not love you, but I did not know it. And now it has become a part of myself, something which can never be any more separated from me. Hush! do not be frightened. I promise you that you may hear all I have to say without disloyalty to-- him. It can never leave me: it has brought me a sorrow, a great sorrow; but even at this moment--Therese, Therese, do you think I could part with it? Do you think that I do not even now thank God for this gift? There is a sweetness in it which no suffering can overpower." Yes, there was a sweetness--all the sweetness of true love. Love, which was generous, and could give without a hope of return; love, which in its friendship, in its self-sacrifice, in its faithfulness, should be like an angel in this man's heart. Therese looked at him with awe. Something in his words stirred her nature to its depths, showed her a height of which she had never dreamed. She had claimed happiness as a right, he accepted sorrow as a blessing. She had found only bitterness where he already spoke of sweetness. She cried out against her lot, he had faith that all should be for good. She had read of these things, she had in some degree thought of them in her devotions; but never before had she seen a life thus influenced, and it came upon her like a revelation. "And therefore," continued Max, still standing before her, and speaking in the same slow sentences, "you will understand that, though I may not often see you, it must be my greatest happiness to serve you, to be your friend and his. Do not deny me this. Do not fear me."