ghtful, slow, serious, even-tempered, frank, quiet,
unconscious of her beauty, and with that wonderful thing, a voice
tender and low and sympathetic and full of an eloquence I could
never understand, although I felt it to my finger-tips. I could
not help loving her, and, indeed, what man with any life in him
feels not the power of such a woman? That morning, on the
woods-pike, I reduced the problem to its simplest terms: the one
was a physical type, the other a spiritual.

"M'sieur le Capitaine," said Louison, as I rode by the carriage,
"what became of the tall woman last night?"

"Left us there in the woods," I answered. "She was afraid of you."

"Afraid of me! Why?"

"Well, I understand that you boxed her ears shamefully."

A merry peal of laughter greeted my words.

"It was too bad; you were very harsh," said Louise, soberly.

"I could not help it; she was an ugly, awkward thing," said
Louison. "I could have pulled her nose'"

"And it seems you called her a geante also," I said. "She was
quite offended."

"It was a compliment," said the girl. "She was an Amazon--like the
count's statue of Jeanne d'Arc."

"Poor thing! she could not help it," said Louise.

"Well," said Louison, with a sigh of regret, "if I ever see her
again I shall give her a five-franc piece."

There was a moment of silence, and she broke it.

"I hope, this afternoon, you will let me ride that horse," said she.

"On one condition," was my reply.

"And it is--?"

"That you will let me ride yours at the same time."

"Agreed," was her answer. "Shall we go at three?"

"With the consent of the baroness and--and your father," I said.

"Father!" exclaimed the two girls. /

"Your father," I repeated. "He is now at the chateau."

"Heavens!" said Louison.

"What will he say?" said the baroness.

"I am so glad--my dear papa!" said Louise, clapping her hands.

We were out of the woods now, and could see the chateau in the
uplands.

XXIV

There was a dignity in the manners of M. de Lambert to me
formidable and oppressive. It showed in his tall, erect figure,
his deep tone, his silvered hair and mustache. There was a merry
word between the kisses of one daughter; between those of the other
only tears and a broken murmur.

"Oh, papa," said Louison, as she greeted him, "I do love you--but I
dread that--tickly old mustache. Mon Dieu! what a lover--you must
have been!"

Then she presented me, and put