e to understand.

She spoke abruptly again, a little absently.

"I do not know yet what I am to do. There is the house, and Father
Anton says I must not live there alone."

"But, no!" agreed Jean. "Of course not! That is what I say, too. It
is all the more reason why we should not wait any longer, you and I,
Marie-Louise."

A tinge of colour crept shyly into Marie-Louise's face, as she shook
her head.

"No; we must wait, Jean. It is too soon after--after poor Uncle
Gaston."

"But it was Gaston's wish, that," persisted Jean gently. "Have I not
told you what he said, _petite_?"

Again Marie-Louise shook her head.

"But one is sad for all that," she answered. "And to go to the church,
Jean, when one is sad, when one should go so happy! Oh, I want to be
happy then, Jean. I do not want to think of anything that day but only
you, Jean--and sing, and there must be sunshine and fete. But now, for
a little while, it is Uncle Gaston. You do not think that wrong?"

"No," said Jean slowly, "it is not wrong, and I understand; but then,
too, Gaston would understand, for it was his wish."

Marie-Louise bent forward with a strange little impulsive movement.

"That is twice you have said that, Jean," she said. "I--I almost wish
Uncle Gaston had not said what he did to you that night. Jean, it--it
is not what he said, nor what you said to him. That must not make any
difference. Never, never, Jean! One does not marry for that--it is
only if there is love."

"_Mais, 'cre nom_!" exclaimed Jean, suddenly setting aside his clay and
catching Marie-Louise's face between his hands. "Why do you talk like
that? What queer fancies are in that little head? Now, tell me"--he
kissed her lips, while the blood rushed crimson to her cheeks--"tell
me, is that not answer enough? And have we not loved each other long
before that night, and does not all Bernay-sur-Mer know that it will
dance at the _noces_?"

"Yes," whispered Marie-Louise, a little breathlessly.

"Ah, then," said Jean tenderly, "you must not talk like that. What,
Marie-Louise, if I should say to myself, 'now perhaps Marie-Louise has
not loved me all these years, and--'"

She drew hurriedly away.

"Don't, Jean!" she said quickly. "It hurts, that! I love you so much
that sometimes I am afraid. And to-day I am afraid. I do not know
why. And sometimes it is so different. That night on the reef when I
thought that soon the rocks would be covered and