ise. It was strange she had said that!
It was only that afternoon that Marie-Louise had said almost the same
thing. Not like a fisherman! Why not? What was this imagined
difference between himself and the other men in Bernay-sur-Mer?

"Yes; you," she returned briskly. "And now I suppose you will tell me
that you were born here, and have lived here all your life?"

"But yes, mademoiselle," he smiled again, and shrugged his shoulders;
"since it is so. I have never been anywhere else."

"And since it is so, it must be so," she nodded. "What is your name?"

"Jean Laparde," he replied.

"Jean"--she repeated the word deliberately. "I like Jean," she
decided, nodding her head again. "I like Laparde, too, but I will call
you Jean."

Jean's eyes met hers a little quizzically. She carried things by
assault, this beautiful American girl! There was a certain element of
intimacy, an air of proprietorship adopted toward him that somehow, at
one and the same time, quickened his pulse at the vague promise that
they would not be strangers if only she should stay in Bernay-sur-Mer,
and piqued his man-mind at the hint of mastery being snatched from him.

"All call me Jean," he said quietly.

"Then that is settled!" she announced brightly. "Now tell me--Jean.
Is there any other place in the village besides this impossible Taverne
du Bas Rhone where we could stay for a week--a month--as long as we
liked?"

"A week--a month!"--Jean leaned suddenly toward her, an incredulous
delight unconsciously spontaneous in his voice. "You are going to stay
that long? But Papa Fregeau said you had no sooner arrived than you
decided to go again, and--"

"Your Papa Fregeau has a tongue that runs away with him," she
interrupted quickly. "One may change one's mind, I suppose? This
place will do for to-night; but afterwards--surely there is some other
place where we could stay?"

Jean shook his head.

"There is only the Bas Rhone," he said slowly. "I--I am afraid--"

"And now, after all, you are going to be stupid!" she exclaimed
reproachfully.

What was it? What did she mean? It was not the words--they were
nothing. It was the tone, her eyes, an appeal in the exquisite grace
of the lithe form bending toward him, the touch of the fingers laid
lightly on his sleeve, that look again that levelled all barriers
between them--until she was a woman and he was a man. His mind was in
riot. He was a fool! And yet, fool or no, th