‘It couldn’t have been too long,’ said George.

’Ah well, I don’t believe you would have been impatient to put the old fellow under the sod.  But I should have been impatient, I should have been unhappy.  You might have had the woods, to be sure; but it’s hardly enough of a business alone.  Besides, a young man is always more his own master away from his father.  I can understand that.  The only thing is, George,—­take a drive over, and see us sometimes.’  This was all very well, but it was not quite so well when he began to speak of Marie.  ’It’s a terrible loss her going, you know, George; I shall feel it sadly.’

‘I can understand that,’ said George.

’But of course I had my duty to do to the girl.  I had to see that she should be well settled, and she will be well settled.  There’s a comfort in that;—­isn’t there, George?’

But George could not bring himself to reply to this with good-humoured zeal, and there came for a moment a cloud between the father and son.  But Michel was wise and swallowed his wrath, and in a minute or two returned to Colmar and Madame Faragon.

At about half-past nine George escaped from his father and returned to the house.  They had been sitting in the balcony which runs round the billiard-room on the side of the court opposite to the front door.  He returned to the house, and caught Marie in one of the passages up-stairs, as she was completing her work for the day.  He caught her close to the door of his own room and asked her to come in, that he might speak a word to her.  English readers will perhaps remember that among the Vosges mountains there is less of a sense of privacy attached to bedrooms than is the case with us here in England.  Marie knew immediately then that her cousin had not come to Granpere for nothing,—­had not come with the innocent intention of simply pleasing his father,—­had not come to say an ordinary word of farewell to her before her marriage.  There was to be something of a scene, though she could not tell of what nature the scene might be.  She knew, however, that her own conduct had been right; and therefore, though she would have avoided the scene, had it been possible, she would not fear it.  She went into his room; and when he closed the door, she smiled, and did not as yet tremble.

‘Marie,’ he said, ’I have come here on purpose to say a word or two to you.’  There was no smile on her face as he spoke now.  The intention to be savage was written there, as plainly as any purpose was ever written on man’s countenance.  Marie read the writing without missing a letter.  She was to be rebuked, and sternly rebuked;—­rebuked by the man who had taken her heart, and then left her;—­rebuked by the man who had crushed her hopes and made it absolutely necessary for her to give up all the sweet poetry of her life, to forget her dreams, to abandon every wished-for prettiness of existence, and confine herself to duties