And Webster walked off, evidently imagining that there could be no hesitation about the matter of the inheritance.

The whole of that day was a miserable failure to Noel McAllister.  He had one of those natures which hate making a decision.  He was restless, and could settle down to nothing, and walked up and down his mother’s little verandah like a caged animal.  He could not bear the thought of giving up Marie, yet, on the other hand, he could not bear the thought of giving up his inheritance.  It was too tempting.  To leave forever the monotony of a life at Father Point, to plunge all at once into luxury and riches, that was a dazzling prospect, with only Marie Gourdon on the other side to counter-balance these attractions.  And she had been so slow in telling him she cared for him that even now he half doubted whether she really did, in spite of the truthfulness in her great brown eyes, when she repeated the refrain of that old French song.  And the lawyer had said she would forget in a month, like all other girls, and she was not different from other girls.  Yes, it was a difficult question to decide, there was no doubt about that.  He despised himself for thinking of giving up Marie, the mere thought horrified him, and yet—­Dunmorton, ease, riches, luxury!

To give all these up without a struggle would have been difficult, even to a more heroic nature than Noel McAllister’s.

There was not long, however, for him to decide the question, and as evening came on, and he thought that by next morning the die must be cast one way or the other, his head ached with the effort of anxious thought.  Fresh air he felt he must have, so he went out from the cottage, and walked hurriedly down the road.

The moon was shining cold and clear, showing distinctly the delicate tracery of each branch and leaf overhanging the pathway.  The cold, clear light threw into strong relief each giant maple tree darkly looming against the silvery evening sky.

McAllister walked hurriedly on, deeply thinking, for about a quarter of a mile.  His head was bent, and he saw nothing, so absorbed was he in his own meditations.  Presently, however, a figure crossed his path.  He started, and looked up to see a girl in a red cloak standing in the pathway.  She stopped before him.  It was Marie Gourdon, the last person in the world he wished to meet just then.

“Marie, my dear one,” he said, “what are you doing out so far alone, and at this hour too?  Come; let me take you home.”

“Noel, I came to see you.  I hoped to have met you.  I have something important to say to you.”

“Indeed, Marie, what can it be?  You should have sent for me.  You cannot talk to me here.  Let me take you home, and then you can tell me.”

“No, no,” said Marie persistently.  “Jean and my father are in the house, and I wish to speak to you alone, and what I am going to tell you I must say to-night.”