, I am very glad
you are coming," she said again. "When he doesn't want you with him you
can come and play with me. And when it's summer"--her eyes fairly
danced--"we'll go for picnics, Bertie, lots of picnics. You'll like that,
_preux chevalier_?"

He smiled back upon her; who could have helped it? But he stifled a sigh
as he smiled. Would life be always a picnic to her, he asked himself? He
could not imagine it otherwise, and yet he knew that even upon this child
of mirth and innocence the reality of life must dawn some day. Would it
be a gracious dawning of pearly tints and roselit radiance, gradually
filling that eager young soul to the brim with the greater joys of life?
Or would it be fiery and terrible, a blinding, relentless burst of light,
from which she would shrink appalled, discerning the wrath of the gods
before ever she had realized their bounty?

Could it be thus with her, his little comrade, his bird of Paradise, his
darling? He thought not. He believed not. And yet deep in the heart of
him he feared.

And because of that lurking fear he vowed silently over the little
friendly hand that lay so confidingly in his that never while breath
remained in his body would he leave her until he knew her happiness--the
ultimate happiness of her womanhood--to be assured.

It seemed to him that it was for this alone that he had been introduced
once more into her book of life. All his hopes and dreams had passed; he
was an old man before his time; but this one thing, it seemed, was left
to him. For a while longer his name would figure with hers across the
page. Only when the page turned his part would be done. She would not
need him then. She would be a woman; and--_eh bien_, it was only the
child Chris who could ever be expected to need him now. When she ceased
to be a child the need--if such, indeed, existed--would be for ever past;
and he would be no more to her than a memory--the memory of one who had
played with her a while in the happy land of her childhood and had shared
with her the picnics of those summer days.

This was the sole remaining aspiration of Bertrand de Montville--the man
who in the arrogance of his youth had diced with the gods, and had lost
the cast.

CHAPTER XIV

A REVELATION

"My dear, it is quite useless for you to attempt to justify your conduct,
for it was simply inexcusable. No argument can possibly alter that fact.
Everyone was waiting about for a considerable time in the