"A nun?" stupefied.

"The idea seems to annoy you, Monsieur," a chill settling upon her

tones.

"Annoy me? No; it terrifies me. God did not intend you to be a nun;

you were born for love. And is there a man in all the world who loves

you half as fondly as I? You are here in Quebec! And I never even

dared dream of such a possibility!"

"I accompanied a dear friend of mine, whose intention to enter the

Ursulines stirred the desire in my own heart. Love? Is any man worthy

of a woman's love? What protestations, what vows to-day! And

to-morrow, over a cup of wine, the man boasts of a conquest, and casts

about for another victim. It is so."

"You wrote a letter to me," he said, remembering. "It was in quite a

different tone." He advanced again.

"Was I so indiscreet?" jestingly, though the rise and fall of her bosom

was more than normal. "Monsieur, do not think for the briefest moment

that I followed you!"

"I know not what to think. But that letter . . ."

"What did I say?"

"You said that France was large, but that if I loved you I would find

you."

"And you searched diligently; you sought the four ends of France?" with

quiet sarcasm.

He could find no words.

"Ah! Have you that letter? I should like to read it." She put forth

her hand with a little imperious gesture.

He fumbled in his blouse. Had his mind been less blunted he would have

thought twice before trusting the missive into her keeping. But he

gave it to her docilely. There beat but one thought in his brain: she

was here in Quebec.

She took down a candle from the mantel. She read aloud, and her tone

was flippant. "'Forgive! How could I have doubted so gallant a

gentleman!' What was it I doubted?" puckering her brow. "No matter."

She went on: "'You have asked me if I love you. Find me and put the

question. France is large. If you love me you will find me. You have

complained that I have never permitted you to kiss me.'" She paused,

glanced obliquely at the scrawl, and shrugged. "Can it be possible

that I wrote this--'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'?"

Calmly she folded the letter. "Well, Monsieur, and you searched

thoroughly, I have no doubt. This would be an incentive to the most

laggard gallant."

"I . . . I was in deep trouble." The words choked him. "I was about

to start . . ." He glanced about helplessly.

"And . . . ?" The scorn on her face deepened. He became conscious

that the candle and the letter were drawing dangerously close.

"Good God, Diane! how can I tell you? You would not understand! . . .

What are you doing?" springing toward her to stay her arm. But he was

too late. The flame was already eating into the heart of that precious

testament.




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