elle shook her head. "I saw him for the first time to-day, not very
long ago, when I was speaking to Flora. I had come out for a moment when
she called to me, and he came over the bridge and took us unawares."

Lagardere looked at her thoughtfully. "Could you love such a man as he?"
he asked, gravely. "He is young, he is brave, he is witty; he might well
win a girl's heart."

Gabrielle returned Lagardere's earnest look with a look of surprise. "He
is a noble. I am a poor girl."

Lagardere smiled wistfully. "How if you were no longer to be a poor girl,
Gabrielle? How if this visit to Paris were to change our fortunes?"

Gabrielle looked at him curiously. "Why have we come to Paris, Henri? I
thought there was danger in Paris?"

"There was danger in Paris," Lagardere said, slowly--"grave danger. But I
have seen a great man, and the danger has vanished, and you and I are
coming to the end of our pilgrimage."

"The end of our pilgrimage?" echoed Gabrielle. "What is going to happen
to us?"

"Wonderful things," Lagardere said, lightly--"beautiful things. You shall
know all about them soon enough." To himself he whispered: "Too soon for
me." Then he addressed the girl again, blithely: "When I took you to
Madrid you saw the color of the court, you heard the music of festivals.
Did you not feel that you were made for such a life?"

Gabrielle answered instantly: "Yes, for that life--or any life--with
you."

Lagardere protested: "Ah, but without me."

Gabrielle's graceful being seemed to stiffen a little, and her words gave
an absolute decision: "Nothing without you, Henri."

Lagardere seemed to tempt the girl with his next speech: "Those women you
saw had palaces, had noble kinsfolk, had mothers--"

Gabrielle was not to be tempted from her faith. "A mother is the only
treasure I envy them," she said, firmly.

Lagardere looked at her strangely, and again questioned her. "But suppose
you had a mother, and suppose you had to choose between that mother and
me?"

For a moment Gabrielle paused. The question seemed to have a distressing
effect upon her. She echoed his last words: "Between my mother and you."
Then she paused, and her lips trembled, but she spoke very steadily:
"Henri, you are the first in the world for me."

Lagardere sighed. "You have never known a mother, but there are graver
rivals to a friendship such as ours than a mother's love."

"What rivals can there be to our friendship?" Gabrielle asked.

L