s to do so, mademoiselle, and
that monsieur shall want for nothing."

There was a moment's silence. They were still regarding each other.

"And watch him, to see that he does not overwork himself. I am going
away very uneasy; he has not been well for some time past. Take good
care of him."

"Make your mind easy, mademoiselle, I will take care of him."

"Well, I give him into your charge. He will have only you now; and it is
some consolation to me to know that you love him dearly. Love him with
all your strength. Love him for us both."

"Yes, mademoiselle, as much as I can."

Tears came into their eyes; Clotilde spoke again.

"Will you embrace me, Martine?"

"Oh, mademoiselle, very gladly."

They were in each other's arms when Pascal reentered the room. He
pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his
emotion. In an unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final preparations
for Clotilde's departure, like a man who had a great deal on his hands
and was afraid that the train might be missed. He had corded the trunks,
a man had taken them away in a little wagon, and they would find them at
the station. But it was only eight o'clock, and they had still two long
hours before them. Two hours of mortal anguish, spent in unoccupied
and weary waiting, during which they tasted a hundred times over the
bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly a quarter of an hour.
Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes never left the clock.
The minutes seemed long as those of a death watch, throughout the
mournful house.

"How the wind blows!" said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the doors
creak.

Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the
storm-blown trees.

"It has increased since morning," he said. "Presently I must see to the
roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away."

Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence to
the furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it their
life.

Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply:

"It is time, Clotilde."

She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an
instant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful
reality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not
open his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from this
moment her face was like that of one struck with death.

At fir