“They are patterns for Julia’s wedding-dress,” said my mother, in a low, tender voice.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

TRUE TO BOTH.

“For Julia!” I repeated, the treacherous vision fading away instantaneously.  “Oh, yes!  I understand.  They are very beautiful—­very beautiful indeed.”

“Which do you like most?” asked Julia, in a whisper, as she leaned against my shoulder.

“I like them all,” I said.  “There is scarcely any difference among them that I can see.”

“No difference!” she exclaimed.  “That is so like a man!  Why, they are as different as can be.  Look here, this one is only five shillings a yard, and that is twelve.  Isn’t that a difference?”

“A very great one,” I replied.  “But do you think you will look well in white, my dear Julia?  You never do wear white.”

“A bride cannot wear any thing but white,” she said, angrily.  “I declare, Martin, you would not mind if I looked a perfect fright.”

“But I should mind very much,” I urged, putting my arm around her; “for you will be my wife then, Julia.”

She smiled almost for the first time that afternoon, for her mind had been full of the furniture, and too burdened for happiness.  But now she looked happy.

“You can be as nice and good as any one, when you like,” she said, gently.

“I shall always be nice and good when we are married,” I answered, with a laugh.  “You are not afraid of venturing, are you, Julia?”

“Not the least in the world,” she said.  “I know you, Martin, and I can trust you implicitly.”

My heart ached at the words, so softly and warmly spoken.  But I laughed again—­at myself this time, not at her.  Why should she not trust me?  I would be as true as steel to her.  I loved no one better, and I would take care not to love any one.  My word, my honor, my troth, were all plighted to her.  Only a scoundrel and a fool would be unfaithful to an engagement like ours.

We walked home together, we three, all contented and all happy.  We had a good deal to talk of during the evening, and sat up late.  Sundry small events had happened in Guernsey during my six-days’ absence, and these were discussed with that charming minuteness with which women canvass family matters.  It was midnight before I found myself alone in my own room.

I had half forgotten the crumpled paper in my waistcoat-pocket, but now I smoothed it out before me and pondered over every word.  No, there could not be a doubt that it referred to Miss Ollivier.  “Bright-brown hair, gray eyes, and delicate features.”  That exactly corresponded with her appearance.  “Blue-silk dress, and seal-skin jacket and hat.”  It was precisely the dress which Tardif had described.  “Fifty pounds reward.”  That was a large sum to offer, and the inference was that her friends were persons of good means, and anxious for her recovery.