hed at him merrily.

"Then that is settled!" she announced. "Three hundred francs. There
is nothing more to be said. The only question is, will Marie-Louise
let us have the house?"

"Mademoiselle," said the old priest, his eyes twinkling, "may I say
it?--you are charming! As for the arrangements, have no fear. I would
go this evening, only I have some sick to visit. But very early in the
morning I will see Marie-Louise, and by the time mademoiselle and her
father have had breakfast the house will be at their disposal."

She reached her hand across the gate to thank Father Anton and bid the
cure good evening--but Jean no longer heard a word. His mind seemed to
be clashing discordantly; his thoughts in dissension, in open hostility
one to another. She was to live in the house on the bluff.
Marie-Louise was to stay there, too. One moment he saw no objection to
the plan; the next moment, for a thousand vague, fragmentary reasons,
that in their entire thousand would not form a single concrete whole
that he could grasp, he did not like it at all.

He answered Father Anton's "_au revoir_" mechanically, as they started
back for the Bas Rhone. She was in a hurry now, all life, all
excitement--half running.

"Did I not tell you, Jean, that I would find just what I wanted?" she
called out in gay spirits.

She had told him nothing of the sort.

"Yes," said Jean.

They reached the Bas Rhone, and there, in the doorway, she turned.

"I must find my father, and tell him," she said. There was a smile, a
flash of the grey eyes, a glint from the bronze-crowned head, a quick
little impetuous pressure on his arm, a laugh soft and musical as the
rippling of a brook; and then: "Until to-morrow, Jean."

And she was gone.

Until to-morrow! The words were strangely familiar. Papa Fregeau was
hurrying through the cafe. Jean turned away. He had no wish to talk
to Papa Fregeau--or any one else. He walked down to the beach--and his
eyes, across the bay, fixed on the headland. Yes, that was it! Until
to-morrow--that was what Marie-Louise had said--until to-morrow.

He went on along the beach, his brain feverishly chaotic. She had been
like a vision, a glorious vision, suddenly gone, as she had stood there
in the doorway. Her name was Myrna Bliss. Why not, since Father Anton
could not go that night, why not go to Marie-Louise himself and tell
her about the house? Yes; he would do that.

He crossed the beach to the