The pity of the situation came upon me hard. I
had to be father and friend,--lover I could not be. The woman had
great self-control, but she would need it. Well, I could trust her to
do her best. I went to find her.
As yet I had not said good-morning to her, although I had seen her from
the distance, and knew that she had breakfasted and had talked with
Father Nouvel. She was sitting now under a beech tree on the headland,
and when I bent before her she shook her head.
"It is not real," she said, with a look over water and forest. "It is
all a dream."
I stopped to send a group of curious squaws upon their way. It was
indeed like a pictured spectacle,--the green wood, the Indian village,
and the headland-guarded bay opening northward over rolling water.
"Yes, it is a dream," I agreed. "You will soon wake. Where would you
like the wakening to take place, mademoiselle? At Meudon?"
She looked up with a smile. "What would you like to know about me?"
she asked, with a sober directness, which, like her smile, was friendly
and brave. "You heard something last night. I am entirely willing to
tell you more. But is it not wise for us to know as little as possible
about each other?"
"Why, mademoiselle?"
She hesitated.
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