“Ma soeur!  Ma soeur!” the big fellow cried, hoarsely.  He had fallen all atremble now; he could have believed himself demented only for something in Rouletta’s face.  “You mean—­him?  Wat’s dis you sayin’?”

“I mean him—­you.  Who else could I mean?  He doesn’t care for me, but for another, and I’m—­oh, so glad!”

“Mon Dieu!” ’Poleon gasped.  “For why you look at me lak dat?  Don’- -don’—!” His cry was one of pain, of reproach; he closed his eyes the while he strove to still his working features.  He opened them with a snap when a small, warm, tremulous hand closed over his.

“You wouldn’t mind if he called me his sister, if—­if you called me—­something else, would you, dear?”

“Oh, ma soeur!” he whispered.  “I’m poor, ignorant feller.  I ain’t no good.  But you—­de bes’ man in all de worl’ would love you.”

“He does, but he won’t say so,” Rouletta declared.  “Come, must I say it for him?”

One last protest the fellow voiced.  “Me, I’m rough-neck man.  I scarcely read an’ write.  But you—­”

“I’m a gambler’s daughter, nothing more—­a bold and forward creature.  But I’m done with dealing.  I’m tired of the game and henceforth I’m going to be the ’lookout’—­your ‘lookout,’ dear.”  With a choking little laugh the girl drew nearer, and, lifting his hands, she crept inside his arms.  Then as life, vigor, fire succeeded his paralysis, she swayed closer, until her breast was against his.

With a wordless, hungry cry of ecstasy, so keen that it was akin to agony, ‘Poleon Doret enfolded her in his great embrace.  “Don’ spoke no more,” he implored her.  “I’ll be wakin’ up too soon.”

They stood so for a long time before she raised her dewy lips to his.

THE END