uld not say ... but when
they parted she felt that she must see him again... and then today...
perhaps it was the scent of the violets... they were so exquisitely
sweet... perhaps it was his enthusiasm and his talk about England... but
when Heron came she knew that she must save Armand's life at all cost...
that she would die if they dragged him away to prison.

Thus these two children philosophised, trying to understand the mystery
of the birth of Love. But they were only children; they did not really
understand. Passion was sweeping them off their feet, because a common
danger had bound them irrevocably to one another. The womanly instinct
to save and to protect had given the young girl strength to bear a
difficult part, and now she loved him for the dangers from which she had
rescued him, and he loved her because she had risked her life for him.

The hours sped on; there was so much to say, so much that was exquisite
to listen to. The shades of evening were gathering fast; the room, with
its pale-toned hangings and faded tapestries, was sinking into the
arms of gloom. Aunt Marie was no doubt too terrified to stir out of her
kitchen; she did not bring the lamps, but the darkness suited Armand's
mood, and Jeanne was glad that the gloaming effectually hid the
perpetual blush in her cheeks.

In the evening air the dying flowers sent their heady fragrance around.
Armand was intoxicated with the perfume of violets that clung to
Jeanne's fingers, with the touch of her satin gown that brushed his
cheek, with the murmur of her voice that quivered through her tears.

No noise from the ugly outer world reached this secluded spot. In the
tiny square outside a street lamp had been lighted, and its feeble rays
came peeping in through the lace curtains at the window. They caught the
dainty silhouette of the young girl, playing with the loose tendrils of
her hair around her forehead, and outlining with a thin band of light
the contour of neck and shoulder, making the satin of her gown shimmer
with an opalescent glow.

Armand rose from his knees. Her eyes were calling to him, her lips were
ready to yield.

"Tu m'aimes?" he whispered.

And like a tired child she sank upon his breast.

He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips; her skin was fragrant as the
flowers of spring, the tears on her cheeks glistened like morning dew.

Aunt Marie came in at last, carrying the lamp. She found them sitting
side by side, like two childr