We went riding that afternoon—­Therese and her marquis and Louison and I. The first two went on ahead of us; we rode slowly, and for a time no word was spoken.  Winds had stripped the timber, and swept its harvest to the walls and hollows, where it lay bleaching in the sun.  Birch and oak and maple were holding bared arms to the wind, as if to toughen them for storm and stress.  I felt a mighty sadness, wondering if my own arms were quite seasoned for all that was to come.  The merry-hearted girl beside me was ever like a day of June—­the color of the rose in her cheek, its odor always in her hair and lace.  There was never an hour of autumn in her life.

“Alas, you are a very silent man!” said she, presently, with a little sigh.

“Only thinking,” I said.

“Of what?”

“Dieu! of the dead summer,” I continued.

“Believe me, it does not pay to think,” she interrupted.  “I tried it once, and made a sad discovery.”

“Of what?”

“A fool!” said she, laughing.

“I should think it—­it might have been a coquette,” said I, lightly.

“Why, upon my word,” said she, “I believe you misjudge me.  Do you think me heartless?”

For the first time I saw a shadow in her face.

“No; but you are young and—­and beautiful, and—­”

“What?” she broke in impatiently, as I hesitated.  “I long to know.”

“Men will love you in spite of all you can do,” I added.

“Captain!” said she, turning her face away.

“Many will love you, and—­and you can choose only one—­a very hard thing to do—­possibly.”

“Not hard,” said she, “if I see the right one—­and—­and—­he loves me also.”

I had kept myself well in hand, for I was full of doubts that day; but the clever girl came near taking me, horse, foot, and guns, that moment.  She spoke so charmingly, she looked so winning, and then, was it not easy to ask if I were the lucky one?  She knew I loved her, I knew that she had loved me, and I might as well confess.  But no; I was not ready.

“You must be stern with the others; you must not let them tell you,” I went on.

“Ciel!” said she, laughing, “one might as well go to a nunnery.  May not a girl enjoy her beauty?  It is sweet to her.”

“But do not make it bitter for the poor men.  Dieu!  I am one of them, and know their sorrows.”

“And you—­you have been in love?”

“Desperately,” I answered, clinging by the finger-tips.  Somehow we kept drifting into fateful moments when a word even might have changed all that has been—­our life way, the skies above us, the friends we have known, our loves, our very souls.

She turned, smiling, her beauty flashing up at me with a power quite irresistible.  I shut my eyes a moment, summoning all my forces.  There was only a step between me and—­God knows what!

“Captain, you are a foolish fellow,” said she, with a little shudder.  “And I—­well, I am cold.  Parbleu! feel my hand.”