ame forward to meet me with
both hands extended. I saw that _she was in tears_!

"Is it true you intend leaving us, Monsieur?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle; I am now quite strong again. I have come to thank
you for your kind hospitality, and say adieu."

"Hospitality!--ah, Monsieur, you have reason to think it cold
hospitality since I permit you to leave us so soon. I would you had
remained; but--" Here she became embarrassed: "but--you are not to be a
stranger, although you go to the hotel. Bringiers is near; promise that
you will visit us often--in fact, every day?"

I need not say that the promise was freely and joyfully given.

"Now," said she, "since you have given that promise, with less regret I
can say adieu!"

She extended her hand for a parting salute. I took her fingers in mine,
and respectfully kissed them. I saw the tears freshly filling in her
eyes, as she turned away to conceal them.

I was convinced she was acting under constraint, and against her
inclination, else I should not have been allowed to depart. Hers was
not the spirit to fear gossip or scandal. Some other _pressure_ was
upon her.

I was passing out through the hall, my eyes eagerly turning in every
direction. Where was _she_? Was I not to have _even a parting word_!

At that moment a side-door was gently opened. My heart beat wildly as
it turned upon its hinge. Aurore!

I dare not trust myself to speak aloud. It would have been overheard in
the drawing-room. A look, a whisper, a silent pressure of the hand, and
I hurried away; but the return of that pressure, slight and almost
imperceptible as it was, fired my veins with delight; and I walked on
towards the gate with the proud step of a conqueror.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

AURORE LOVES ME.

"_Aurore loves me_!"

The thought thus expressed was of younger date than the day of my
removing to Bringiers from the plantation. A month had elapsed since
that day.

The details of my life during that month would possess but little
interest for you, reader; though to me every hour was fraught with hopes
or fears that still hold a vivid place in my memory. When the heart is
charged with love, every trifle connected with that love assumes the
magnitude of an important matter; and thoughts or incidents that
otherwise would soon be forgotten, hold a firm place in the memory. I
could write a volume about my affairs of that month, every line of which
would be deeply interesting to _