“Dr. Martin,” he said, “I would have cut off my hand rather than it had been so.  Poor little mam’zelle!  Poor old mother!  She is growing old, sir, and old people are greedy.  The fall of the year is dark and cold, and gives nothing, but takes away all it can, and hoards it for the young new spring that is to follow.  It seems almost the nature of old age.  Poor old mother!  I am very grieved for her.  And I am troubled, troubled about mam’zelle.  To think she has been fretting all the winter about this, when I was trying to find out how to cheer her!  Only five pounds left, poor little soul!  Why! all I have is at her service.  It is enough to have her only in the house, with her pretty ways and sweet voice.  I’ll put it all right with mam’zelle, sir, and with my poor old mother too.  I am very sorry for her.”

“Miss Ollivier has been asking me to sell her hair,” I said.

“No, no,” he answered hastily, “not a single hair!  I cannot say yes to that.  The pretty bright curls!  If anybody is to buy them, I will.  Yes, doctor! that is famous.  She wishes you to sell her hair?  Very good; I will buy it; it must be mine.  I have more money than you think, perhaps.  I will buy mam’zelle’s pretty curls; and she shall have the money, and then there will be more than five pounds in her little purse.  Tell me how much they will be.  Ten pounds?  Fifteen?  Twenty?”

“Nonsense, Tardif!” I answered; “keep one of them, if you like; but I must have the rest.  We will settle it between us.”

“No, doctor,” he said; “your cousin will not like that.  You are going to be married soon; it would not do for you to keep mam’zelle’s curls.”

It was said with so much simplicity and good-heartedness that I felt ashamed of a rising feeling of resentment, and parted with him cordially.  In a few minutes afterward I was on board the yacht, and laughing at Captain Carey’s reproaches.  Tardif was still visible on the edge of the cliff, watching our departure.

“That is as good a fellow as ever breathed,” said Captain Carey, waving his cap to him.

“I know it better than you do,” I replied.

“And how is the young woman?” he asked.

“Going on as well as a broken arm and a sprained ankle can do,” I answered.

“You will want to come again, Martin,” he said; “when are we to have another day?”

“Well, I shall hear how she is every now and then,” I answered; “it takes too long a time to come more often than is necessary.  But you will bring me if it is necessary?”

“With all my heart,” said Captain Carey.

For the next few days I waited with some impatience for Miss Ollivier’s promised letter.  It came at last, and I put it into my pocket to read when I was alone—­why, I could scarcely have explained to myself.