greeable and better
bred than the others, some fine day she will tell you so, no doubt."

"Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as she
pleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place,
I should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not waste
the time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancing
attendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is what
amuses her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there is
one thing I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you have
mistaken my intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what is
not so, that you have given me no chance to explain. You must know,
then, that I did not come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, but
merely to buy a pair of oxen which you are going to take to market next
week, and which my father-in-law thinks will suit him."

"I understand, Germain," answered Leonard very calmly; "you changed your
plans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please.
It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and you
are perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared your
intentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them in
the pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back to
dinner with us before you return."

"I don't wish to trouble you," answered Germain. "Perhaps you have
something to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing and
standing idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you at
your house."

Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows where
Leonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true that
Father Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he were
to bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might more
easily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of his
journey. He walked rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance from
Ormeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to see
little Marie once again, although he had lost all hope and even had
chased away the thought that he might some day owe his happiness to her.
Everything that he had heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain;
this father, at once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughter
in habits of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him a
trans