arewell? Be man and wife, and go together."

Deruchette started. A trembling seized her from head to foot.

Gilliatt continued:

"Miss Lethierry is a woman. She is of age. It depends only on herself.
Her uncle is but her uncle. You love each other----"

Deruchette interrupted in a gentle voice, and asked, "How came you
here?"

"Make yourselves one," repeated Gilliatt.

Deruchette began to have a sense of the meaning of his words. She
stammered out:

"My poor uncle!"

"If the marriage was yet to be," said Gilliatt, "he would refuse. When
it is over he will consent. Besides, you are going to leave here. When
you return he will forgive."

Gilliatt added, with a slight touch of bitterness, "And then he is
thinking of nothing just now but the rebuilding of his boat. This will
occupy his mind during your absence. The Durande will console him."

"I cannot," said Deruchette, in a state of stupor which was not without
its gleam of joy. "I must not leave him unhappy."

"It will be but for a short time," answered Gilliatt.

Caudray and Deruchette had been, as it were, bewildered. They recovered
themselves now. The meaning of Gilliatt's words became plainer as their
surprise diminished. There was a slight cloud still before them; but
their part was not to resist. We yield easily to those who come to
save. Objections to a return into Paradise are weak. There was something
in the attitude of Deruchette, as she leaned imperceptibly upon her
lover, which seemed to make common cause with Gilliatt's words. The
enigma of the presence of this man, and of his utterances, which, in the
mind of Deruchette in particular, produced various kinds of
astonishment, was a thing apart. He said to them, "Be man and wife!"
This was clear; if there was responsibility, it was his. Deruchette had
a confused feeling that, for many reasons, he had the right to decide
upon her fate. Caudray murmured, as if plunged in thought, "An uncle is
not a father."

His resolution was corrupted by the sudden and happy turn in his ideas.
The probable scruples of the clergyman melted, and dissolved in his
heart's love for Deruchette.

Gilliatt's tone became abrupt and harsh, and like the pulsations of
fever.

"There must be no delay," he said. "You have time, but that is all.
Come."

Caudray observed him attentively; and suddenly exclaimed:

"I recognise you. It was you who saved my life."

Gilliatt replied:

"I think not."

"Yonder," said Caud