"Then you mean to give the boy his dismissal," said the doctor, in a
rage. "Good heavens! what strange creatures women are!"

She looked at him with such an expression of despair that he stopped
short.

"No, no, little girl, I am not angry with you. It is my fault more than
yours. You were too young to know your own mind. I am an old fool, and
shall always be one until the bitter end."

Then came the painful duty of writing to Jack. He began a dozen letters,
destroyed them all, and finally sent the telegram, hoping that Cecile
would have come to her senses before the week was over.

The next Saturday, when Dr. Rivals said to his granddaughter, "He will
come to-morrow; is your decision irrevocable?"

"Irrevocable," she said, slowly.

Jack arrived early on Sunday. When he reached the door the servant said,
"My master is waiting for you in the garden."

Jack felt chilled to the heart, and the doctor's face increased his
fears, for he, though for forty years accustomed to the sight of human
suffering, was as troubled as Jack.

"Cecile is here--is she not?" were the youth's first words.

"No, my friend, I left her--at--where we have been, you know; and she
will remain some time."

"Dr. Rivals, tell me what is wrong. She does not wish to see me again?
Is that it?"

The doctor could not answer. Jack seated himself for fear he should
fall. They were at the foot of the garden. It was a fresh, bright
November morning; hoar-frost lay on the lawn, a faint haze hung over the
distant hills and reminded him of that day at Coudray, the vintage,
and their first whisper of love. The doctor laid a paternal hand on his
shoulder. "Jack," he whispered, "do not be unhappy. She is very young
and will perhaps change her mind. It is a mere caprice."

"No, doctor, Cecile never has caprices. That would be horrible--to
drive a knife into a man's heart merely from caprice! I am sure she has
reflected for a long time before she came to this decision. She knew
that her love was my life, and that in tearing it up my life would also
perish. If she has done this, then it is because she knew well that it
was her duty so to do. I ought to have expected it; I should have known
that so great a happiness could not be for me."

He staggered to his feet. His friend took his hand. "Forgive me, my
brave boy; I hoped to make you both happy."

"Do not reproach yourself. Tell her that I accept her decision. Last
year," he continued, "I began the o