departure was a relief to Micheline. Between these two men to
whom she belonged, to the one by a promise, to the other by an avowal,
she felt ashamed. Left alone with Pierre she recovered her
self-possession, and felt full of pity for the poor fellow threatened
with such cruel deception. She went tenderly to him, with her loving eyes
of old, and pressed his hand:

"I am very glad to see you again, my dear Pierre; and my mother will be
delighted. We were very anxious about you. You have not written to us for
some months."

Pierre tried to joke: "The post does not leave very often in the desert.
I wrote whenever I had an opportunity."

"Is it so very pleasant in Africa that you could not tear yourself away a
whole year?"

"I had to take another journey on the coast of Tripoli to finish my
labors. I was interested in my work, and anxious not to lose the result
of so much effort, and I think I have succeeded--at least in--the opinion
of my employers," said the young man, with a ghastly smile.

"My dear Pierre, you come in time from the land of the sphinx,"
interrupted Jeanne gravely, and glancing intently at Micheline. "There is
here, I assure you, a difficult enigma to solve."

"What is it?"

"That which is written in this heart," she replied, lightly touching her
companion's breast.

"From childhood I have always read it as easily as a book," said Pierre,
with tremulous voice, turning toward the amazed Micheline.

Mademoiselle de Cernay tossed her head.

"Who knows? Perhaps her disposition has changed during your absence;" and
nodding pleasantly, she went toward the house.

Pierre followed her for a moment with his eyes, then, turning toward his
betrothed, said:

"Micheline, shall I tell you your secret? You no longer love me."

The young girl started. The attack was direct. She must at once give an
explanation. She had often thought of what she would say when Pierre came
back to her. The day had arrived unexpectedly. And the answers she had
prepared had fled. The truth appeared harsh and cold. She understood that
the change in her was treachery, of which Pierre was the innocent victim;
and feeling herself to blame, she waited tremblingly the explosion of
this loyal heart so cruelly wounded. She stammered, in tremulous accents:

"Pierre, my friend, my brother."

"Your brother!" cried the young man, bitterly. "Was that the name you
were to give me on my return?"

At these words, which so completely sum