arry no man who may be ashamed of me before his
children. Thank M. Boulle for the honor, and tell him----"

The door opened, Destournier recalled one of the few plays he had seen
in Paris, with a tragedienne who had won a king's heart, and it seemed
almost as if this girl might step into fame, so proud and full of power
was she, standing there. Miladi had not been willing to wait for a
conference. But the result would have been the same.

Both men looked at her in surprise, and were speechless for a moment.
Then M. Destournier, recovering, reached out and took the girl's slim,
nerveless hand.

"Rose," he said, "M. Boulle has done us all the honor to ask your hand
in marriage. If you can accept him you will have our heartiest wishes
for your happiness; if you feel that you cannot, if no affection draws
you to him, then do not give him a cold, loveless heart in return. Make
your own choice; there is no one to compel you, no one to insist."

"I thank you, M. Boulle, for the honor." She held her head up very
straight; it seemed as if she had grown since yesterday. Her eyes were
fearless in their high light, the delicious curves of her lips seemed
set as if they had been carved, instead of rosy flesh. "It is more than
the usual honor, I believe. I am a nameless foundling, and have been
handed about from one to another, and they were not the kind in whom one
could take pride. Therefore, I shall not bestow myself on any man, and
no one has any right to take advantage of his generosity. If I loved
you, I should do the same thing. How much more resolute I should be when
I do not love you, and would wed you simply for the sake of sheltering
myself under your name. I am sorry any one has considered this possible,
since it is not."

Boulle took a step forward and grasped her hand, as he poured out a
torrent of ardent love. Miladi looked on, amazed. Was the girl made of
stone, or was her heart elsewhere? She made no appeal to M. Destournier,
indeed her face was turned a trifle from him.

"You pain me," she said wearily, yet with a tender pity. "I can say no
more."

"But I will wait," he pleaded.

"My answer would always be the same."

"Rose!" miladi exclaimed.

"Madame Destournier, I thank you also for your kindness to a foundling,
and you, also," turning to M. Destournier, "for home and shelter, and
many other things. I feel now that since I have disappointed you I
cannot avail myself of your generosity any longer. I ca