e away from his finger nails. He and she were alone in the
newly-furnished rooms of the Mas of the Mountain--for only a few
portable items such as his mother's chair and the ancient pot-bellied
horologe had been brought in a _tartana_ from La Masane to the little
harbour of Les Saintes Maries, where the big mosquitoes are.

"It is not good for man to be alone," began Jean-Marie, even more
sententiously than usual; "I have heard you read that out of your Bible
of Geneva--do you believe it, Claire?"

"Indeed I do," said the girl, looking up brightly; "I have longed--ah,
how I have longed--all these weeks--for your mother!"

"I was thinking of myself!" said the miller heavily.

"Ah, well, that will soon be at an end," returned Claire; "I am sorry,
but I did my best. I have often heard you sigh and sigh and sigh when
you and I walked together of the evening. And I knew I was no company
for you. I was too young and too foolish, was it not so? But now you
will have your mother and your brother, the Professor, who is learned.
He knows all about how to grow onions according to the methods of
Virgil! He told me so himself!"

The big ex-Alcalde looked doubtfully sidelong at his little friend. He
was not a suspicious man, and usually considered Claire as innocent as a
frisking lambling. But now--no, it could not be. She was not making fun
of him--of the man who had done all these things, who had brought her in
safety by paths perilous to this new home!

So very wisely he decided to take Claire's words at their face value.

"My mother is my mother," he said, deciding that the time had come at
last, and that nothing was to be gained by putting it off. "Doctor
Anatole is my elder brother, and as for me, I have all the family
affections. But a man of my age needs something else!"

"What, another windmill?" cried Claire; "well, I will help you. I saw
such a splendid place for one yesterday, right at the top of the rocky
ridge they call Frigolet. It is not too high, yet it catches every wind,
and oh--you can see miles and miles all about--right to the white towers
of Arles, and away to the twin turrets of Chateau Renard among the
green vineyards. There is no such view in all the mountains. And I will
go up there every day and knit my stocking!"

"Oh, if only it were _my_ stocking!" groaned the miserable, tongue-tied
miller, "then I might think about the matter of the windmill."

Foiled in a direct line, he was trying to arrive