n you, eight years older, and I know my own mind. Marie,
you know how I care for you, how I have always cared for you, you know
what I hope may be some day? Has my voice no weight with you? I do not
ask you now to say you care for me, you are too young, but I thought you
would perhaps learn, but to think of you going away to Paris? Oh, my
little Marie, you would never return to us the same!"

"He stopped, and for a moment I stood still without speaking. In spite of
myself he made me listen. He seemed to have guessed that though my
parents had forbidden it, I had not yet given up the thoughts of going
away, and in spite of my silly pride and my temper I was much touched by
what he said, and the thought that if I went away he would leave off
caring for me came to me like a great shock. I had never thought of it
like that; I had always fancied that whatever I did I could keep Didier
devoted to me; I had amused myself with picturing my return from Paris
quite a grand lady, and how I would pretend to be changed to Didier, just
to tease him. But now something in his manner showed me this would not
do; if I defied him and my friends now, he would no longer care for me.
Yet--would you believe it, my little young ladies and young Monsieur?--my
naughty pride still kept me back. I turned from Didier in a rage, and
pulled away my hands.

"'I wish none of your advice or interference,' I said. 'I shall please
myself in my affairs.'

"I hurried away; he did not attempt to stop me, but stood there for a
moment watching me.

"'Good-bye, Marie,' he said, and then he called after me, 'Beware of the
storm.'

"I had still two miles to go. I hurried on, passing the Larreyas' farm,
and just a minute or two after that the storm began. I heard it come
grumbling up, as if out of the heart of the mountains at first, and then
it seemed to rise higher and higher. I was not frightened, but yet I saw
it was going to be a great storm--you do not know, my young ladies, what
storms we have here sometimes--and I was so hot and so tired, and when
the anger began to pass away I felt so miserable. I could not bear to go
home and see them all with the knowledge in my heart of what I intended
to do. When I got near to the orchard, which was about a quarter of a
mile from the house, I felt, with all my feelings together, as if I could
go no farther. The storm seemed to be passing over--for some minutes
there had been no lightning or thunder.

"'Perhaps