he sand, and whose face was
cupped in her hands, and who seemed to be staring so intently out
toward the Perigeau Reef! That was Marie-Louise there--Marie-Louise.
Was it the sight of her that had brought this thing upon him? And now
the scene was changed again. And it was against the window panes that
the rain lashed, and against the sashes that the wind tore, and the
lamp threw its light on the grey-grim face of old Gaston Bernier on the
bed.

Jean shivered a little. What was coming now? What was that? Gaston's
hand was upon his. He could hear Gaston's voice: "Jean, do you love
Marie-Louise?" And then Gaston was repeating the question, and
repeating it again: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And the old
rugged strength seemed back again in Gaston Bernier, as he, rose up in
bed, and his voice in a strange, stern note rang through the room:
"Swear it, Jean ... to a dying man and in God's presence ... swear that
you will..."

"God! My God!" Jean cried out aloud--and like a blind man feeling
before him, turned from the road, stumbled a little way through the
fields, and flung himself face down upon the grass.

There was torment and dismay upon him. His mind was in riot; his soul
bare and naked now before him. Paris! No; he must go instead to
Marie-Louise and tell her that he would stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, that
they would live their lives together, because they loved each other.
Yes; he loved Marie-Louise, not with the mad passion he had for this
American who bewitched him, but as he had loved her all the years since
they were children. He had told Gaston that, and it was true. It was
the act of a _miserable_ to go away! No; he would not go now. It was
true, all that he had told Marie-Louise, that she should stand on the
beach and hold out her arms to him in welcome when he pulled ashore
from the fishing, and that they would be always happy together. And
yet--and yet had not Marie-Louise herself said that he belonged to
France, and said herself that he must go for the great career that lay
before him, for the great work that he was to do?

He cried out aloud sharply, as though in hurt--and prone upon his face,
his hands outstretched before him, lay still for a little time.

It seemed to come insidiously, calling to him, luring him, wrestling,
fighting, battling with the soul of him--Paris! Here there was love,
but there, too, was love. One was calm; the other like the wild tumult
of the storm that