f me which will be like through all my seven ages. Such a picture might
be true of the soul, Pierre, had you painted that, but I have outgrown
the picture of my person."

"I could imagine nothing fairer than that portrait! In soul and body it
is all true, Amelie."

"Flatterer that you are!" said she, laughing. "I could almost wish
that portrait would walk out of its frame to thank you for the care you
bestowed upon its foolish little original."

"My care was more than rewarded! I find in that picture my beau-ideal of
the beauty of life, which, belonging to the soul, is true to all ages."

"The girl of twelve would have thanked you more enthusiastically for
that remark, Pierre, than I dare do," replied she.

"The thanks are due from me, not from you, Amelie! I became your
debtor for a life-long obligation when without genius I could do
impossibilities. You taught me that paradox when you let me paint that
picture."

Amelie glanced quickly up at him. A slight color came and went on her
cheek. "Would that I could do impossibilities," said she, "to thank you
sufficiently for your kindness to Le Gardeur and all of us in coming to
Tilly at this time.

"It would be a novelty, almost a relief, to put Pierre Philibert under
some obligation to us for we all owe him, would it not, Le Gardeur?"
continued she, clasping the arm of her brother, who just now came into
the room. "We will discharge a portion of our debt to Pierre for this
welcome visit by a day on the lake,--we will make up a water-party. What
say you, brother? The gentlemen shall light fires, the ladies shall make
tea, and we will have guitars and songs, and maybe a dance, brother! and
then a glorious return home by moonlight! What say you to my programme,
Le Gardeur de Repentigny? What say you, Pierre Philibert?"

"It is a good programme, sister, but leave me out of it. I shall only
mar the pleasure of the rest; I will not go to the lake. I have been
trying ever since my return home to recognize Tilly; everything looks
to me in an eclipse, and nothing bright as it once was, not even you,
Amelie. Your smile has a curious touch of sadness in it which does not
escape my eyes; accursed as they have been of late, seeing things they
ought not to see, yet I can see that, and I know it, too; I have given
you cause to be sad, sister."

"Hush, brother! it is a sin against your dear eyes to speak of them
thus! Tilly is as bright and joyous as ever. As for my smiles, if