George knew as much as Marie did of the poultry and the linen.  Michel was wrong, probably, in his attempt to separate them.  The house was large enough, or if not, there was still room for another house to be built in Granpere.  They would have done well as man and wife.  But then the head of a household naturally objects to seeing the boys and girls belonging to him making love under his nose without any reference to his opinion.  ’Things were not made so easy for me,’ he says to himself, and feels it to be a sort of duty to take care that the course of love shall not run altogether smooth.  George, no doubt, was too abrupt with his father; or perhaps it might be the case that he was not sorry to take an opportunity of leaving for a while Granpere and Marie Bromar.  It might be well to see the world; and though Marie Bromar was bright and pretty, it might be that there were others abroad brighter and prettier.

His father had spoken to him on one fine September afternoon, and within an hour George was with the men who were stripping bark from the great pine logs up on the side of the mountain.  With them, and with two or three others who were engaged at the saw-mills, he remained till the night was dark.  Then he came down and told something of his intentions to his stepmother.  He was going to Colmar on the morrow with a horse and small cart, and would take with him what clothes he had ready.  He did not speak to Marie that night, but he said something to his father about the timber and the mill.  Gaspar Muntz, the head woodsman, knew, he said, all about the business.  Gaspar could carry on the work till it would suit Michel Voss himself to see how things were going on.  Michel Voss was sore and angry, but he said nothing.  He sent to his son a couple of hundred francs by his wife, but said no word of explanation even to her.  On the following morning George was off without seeing his father.

But Marie was up to give him his breakfast.  ’What is the meaning of this, George?’ she said.

’Father says that I shall be better away from this,—­so I’m going away.’

‘And why will you be better away?’ To this George made no answer.  ’It will be terrible if you quarrel with your father.  Nothing can be so bad as that.’

’We have not quarrelled.  That is to say, I have not quarrelled with him.  If he quarrels with me, I cannot help it.’

‘It must be helped,’ said Marie, as she placed before him a mess of eggs which she had cooked for him with her own hands.  ’I would sooner die than see anything wrong between you two.’  Then there was a pause.  ‘Is it about me, George?’ she asked boldly.

‘Father thinks that I love you:  —­so I do.’

Marie paused for a few minutes before she said anything farther.  She was standing very near to George, who was eating his breakfast heartily in spite of the interesting nature of the conversation.  As she filled his cup a second time, she spoke again.  ’I will never do anything, George, if I can help it, to displease my uncle.’