“I shall never come again—­it is time to go.”

“To go!  Why, you haven’t kissed me yet!”

“I do not intend to kiss you.”

“How cruel of you!  You say you will never come and see me again; you break and destroy my dream.”

“How did you dream of me?”

“I dreamed the world was buried in snow, barred with frost—­that I never went out, but sat here waiting for you to come.  I dreamed that you came to see me on regular days.  I saw myself writing poems to you, looking up to see the clock from time to time.  Tea and wine were ready, and the room was scented with your favourite perfume.  Ting!  How the bell thrilled me, and with what precipitation I rushed to the door!  There I found you.  What pleasure to lead you to the great fire, to help you to take off your pelisse!”

The girl looked at him, her eyes full of innocent wonderment.

“How can you think of such things?  It sounds like a fairy tale.  And if it were summer-time?”

“Oh! if it were summer we should have roses in the room, and only a falling rose-leaf should remind us of the imperceptible passing of the hours.  We should want no books, the picturesqueness of the river would be enough.  And holding your little palm in mine, so silken and delicately moist, I would draw close to you.”

Knowing his skin was delicate to the touch, he took her arm in his hand, but she drew her arm away, and there was incipient denial in the withdrawal.  His face clouded.  But he had not yet made up his mind how he should act, and to gain time to think, he said—­

“Tell me why you thought of entering a convent?”

“I was not happy at home, and the convent, with its prayers and duties, seemed preferable.  But it was not quite the same as I had imagined, and I couldn’t learn to forget that there was a world of beauty, colour, and love.”

“You could not but think of the world of men that awaited you.”

“I only thought of Him.”

“And who was he?”

“Ah!  He was a very great saint, a greater saint than you’ll ever be.  I fell in love with Him when I was quite a little girl.”

“What was his name?”

“I am not going to tell you.  It was for Him I went into the convent; I was determined to be His bride in heaven.  I used to read His life, and think of Him all day long.  I had a friend who was also in love, but the reverend mother heard of our conversations, and we were forbidden to speak any more of our saints.”

“Tell me his name?  Was he anything like me?”

“Well, perhaps there is a something in the eyes.”

The conversation dropped, and he laid his hand gently upon her foot.  Drawing it back she spilt the wine.

“I must go.”

“No, dearest, you must not.”

She looked round, taking the room in one swift circular glance, her eyes resting one moment on the crucifix.

“This is cruel of you,” he said.  “I dreamed of you madly, and why do you destroy my dream?  What shall I do?—­where shall I go?—­how shall I live if I don’t get you?”