chance for skulking marauders.

The house of M. Giffard was falling into decay. Miladi had sent to
France early in the season for many new stuffs and trinkets, and the
settlement of some affairs, instead of turning all over to Destournier.
The goods had come at an exorbitant price, but there had been a great
tangle in money matters, and at his death his concessions had passed
into other hands.

"They always manage to rob a woman," he thought grimly.

"I supposed you were to leave things in my hands," he said, a little
upbraidingly, to her.

"I make you so much trouble. And you have so much to do for the Governor
and your settlement, and I am so weak and helpless. I have never been
strong since that dreadful night. I miss all the care and love. Oh, if
you were a woman you would know how heart-breaking it was. I wish I were
dead! I wish I were dead!"

"And you do not care to go back to France?"

"Do not torment me with that question. I should die on the voyage. And
to be there without friends would be horrible. I have no taste for a
convent."

A great many times the vague plan had entered his mind as a sort of
duty. Now he would put it into execution.

"Become my wife," he said. He leaned over and took her slim hands in his
and glanced earnestly into her eyes, and saw there were fine wrinkles
setting about them. What did it matter? She needed protection and care,
and there was no woman here that he could love as the romances
described. He was too busy a man, too practical.

She let her head drop on his broad breast. She had dreamed of this and
used many little arts, but had never been sure of their effect. There
were the years between, but she needed his strength and devotion more
than a younger woman.

"Oh, ought I be so happy again?" she murmured. "There is so much that is
strong and generous to you that a woman could rest content in giving her
whole life to you, her best love."

He wished she had not said that. He would have been content that her
best love should lie softly in the grave, like an atmosphere around the
sleeping body of Laurent Giffard, whom he had admired very much, and who
had loved his wife with the fervor of youth. He drew a long breath of
pity for the man. It seemed as if he was taking something away from him.

"Is it true?" she asked, in a long silence.

"That I shall care for you, yes. That you will be my wife." Then he
kissed her tenderly.

"I am so happy. Oh, you cannot think h