ean
stayed.

She laughed at him gayly, mercilessly.

"Would you have me take you on trust, Jean?" she questioned, with her
head on one side. "How do I know that you are going to be brave enough
to fight the English, or clever enough to outwit them? How do I know
you will really do the great things I'm expecting of you? I know your
dreams are fine, Boy; but you must show me deeds."

"I will," he answered quietly. "Come here, Sweet, just for one minute!"

"No," she said with a very positive shake of her small head. "You must
go on with your work. You have more to do yet than you realize. And
_I've_ something to do, too. I must go home at once."

"That's not fair, Barbe!" he pleaded.

"I don't care! It is good for you. No, don't come one step with me.
Not one step. Go on with your work. I'm going to fly."

She ran lightly across the chips, at a safe distance from Jean's
outstretched arms, and turned into the trail among the maples. There
she paused, gave her lover one melting, caressing, but still
half-mocking glance, and cried to him:

"I am making a flag for 'Mon Reve,' and it's not _nearly_ done yet,
Jean."

Then she disappeared among the bright branches.

With a tumult in his heart Jean turned back to his ladder and
paint-pot. Little twinges of angry disappointment ran along his
nerves, only to be smothered straightway in a flood of passionate
tenderness.

"Next voyage, anyway!" he muttered to himself as he worked feverishly.
"I couldn't _live_ longer than that without her!" And he went over and
over in his imagination every detail of the girl's appearance, the
changing moods of her radiant dark face, her hair, her hands, the tones
of her voice.

Along the trail through the autumn maples, meanwhile Mademoiselle Barbe
was speeding on light feet. The little smile was gone from the corners
of her mouth, and into her eyes, now that Jean could no longer see
them, was come a great gentleness. Her mockery, her impatience, her
picturesque asperity were a kind of game which she played with herself,
to disguise, sometimes even from herself, the greatness and the
oversensitiveness of her heart. At this moment she was feeling sore at
the nearness of Jean's departure, and was conscious of the pressure of
his will urging her to go with him. This she was resolved she would
not do; but she was equally resolved that her flag should be ready and
go in her place. As for the next voyage--well, she thoug