“Dear me! we have to pardon children everything.  Besides, the little one has the best of hearts, and is grieved so much, poor darling, that she has been already punished too severely.”

So saying she called Jeanne to come and kiss her; but the child remained on her seat, rejecting the offer of forgiveness, and still choking with tears.

Monsieur Rambaud and the doctor, however, walked to her side, and the former, bending over her, asked, in tones husky with emotion:  “Tell me, my pet, what has vexed you?  What have I done to you?”

“Oh!” she replied, drawing away her hands and displaying a face full of anguish, “you wanted to take my mamma from me!”

The doctor, who was listening, burst into laughter.  Monsieur Rambaud at first failed to grasp her meaning.

“What is this you’re talking of?”

“Yes, indeed, the other Tuesday!  Oh! you know very well; you were on your knees, and asked me what I should say if you were to stay with us!”

The smile vanished from the doctor’s face; his lips became ashy pale, and quivered.  A flush, on the other hand, mounted to Monsieur Rambaud’s cheek, and he whispered to Jeanne:  “But you said yourself that we should always play together?”

“No, no; I did not know at the time,” the child resumed excitedly.  “I tell you I don’t want it.  Don’t ever speak to me of it again, and then we shall be friends.”

Helene was on her feet now, with her needlework in its basket, and the last words fell on her ear.  “Come, let us go up, Jeanne,” she said; “your tears are not pleasant company.”

She bowed, and pushed the child before her.  The doctor, with livid face, gazed at her fixedly.  Monsieur Rambaud was in dismay.  As for Madame Deberle and Pauline, they had taken hold of Lucien, and were making him turn between them, while excitedly discussing the question of his Pompadour dress.

On the morrow Helene was left alone under the elms.  Madame Deberle was running about in the interests of her ball, and had taken Lucien and Jeanne with her.  On the doctor’s return home, at an earlier hour than usual, he hurried down the garden steps.  However, he did not seat himself, but wandered aimlessly round the young woman, at times tearing strips of bark from the trees with his finger-nails.  She lifted her eyes for a moment, feeling anxious at sight of his agitation; and then again began plying her needle with a somewhat trembling hand.

“The weather is going to break up,” said she, feeling uncomfortable as the silence continued.  “The afternoon seems quite cold.”

“We are only in April, remember,” he replied, with a brave effort to control his voice.

Then he appeared to be on the point of leaving her, but turned round, and suddenly asked:  “So you are going to get married?”

This abrupt question took her wholly by surprise, and her work fell from her hands.  Her face blanched, but by a supreme effort of will remained unimpassioned, as though she were a marble statue, fixing dilated eyes upon him.  She made no reply, and he continued in imploring tones: