“You are the very strangest man I have ever seen,” she said.

“Shall I give you my notion of a love match, Mademoiselle?” said Nick.

“I should think you might be well versed in the subject, Monsieur,” she answered, speaking to the tree, “but here is scarcely the time and place.”  She wound up her sewing, and faced him.  “I must really leave you,” she said.

He took a step towards her and stood looking down into her face.  Her eyes dropped.

“And am I never to see you again?” he asked.

“Monsieur!” she cried softly, “I do not know who you are.”  She made him a courtesy, took a few steps in the opposite path, and turned.  “That depends upon your ingenuity,” she added; “you seem to have no lack of it, Monsieur.”

Nick was transported.

“You must not go,” he cried.

“Must not?  How dare you speak to me thus, Monsieur?” Then she tempered it.  “There is a lady here whom I love, and who is ill.  I must not be long from her bedside.”

“She is very ill?” said Nick, probably for want of something better.

“She is not really ill, Monsieur, but depressed—­is not that the word?  She is a very dear friend, and she has had trouble—­so much, Monsieur,—­and my mother brought her here.  We love her as one of the family.”

This was certainly ingenuous, and it was plain that the girl gave us this story through a certain nervousness, for she twisted her sewing in her fingers as she spoke.

“Mademoiselle,” said Nick, “I would not keep you from such an errand of mercy.”

She gave him a grateful look, more dangerous than any which had gone before.

“And besides,” he went on, “we have come to stay awhile with you, Mr. Ritchie and myself.”

“You have come to stay awhile?” she said.

I thought it time that the farce were ended.

“We have come with letters to your father, Monsieur de Saint-Gre, Mademoiselle,” I said, “and I should like very much to see him, if he is at leisure.”

Mademoiselle stared at me in unfeigned astonishment.

“But did you not meet him, Monsieur?” she demanded.  “He left an hour ago for New Orleans.  You must have met a gentleman riding very fast.”

It was my turn to be astonished.

“But that was not your father!” I exclaimed.

“Et pourquoi non?” she said.

“Is not your father the stout gentleman whom I saw with you on the levee last evening?” I asked.

She laughed.

“You have been observing, Monsieur,” she said.  “That was my uncle, Monsieur de Beausejour.  You saw me quarrelling with my brother, Auguste,” she went on a little excitedly.  “Oh, I am very much ashamed of it.  I was so angry.  My cousin, Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, has just sent me from France such a beautiful miniature, and Auguste fell in love with it.”

“Fell in love with it!” I exclaimed involuntarily.