"Can what be?" asked Anne, nervously.

"That you have left your heart in France."

"Oh, I have not left my heart in France, Gabrielle. Do you not feel it
beating against your own?"

"Who can he be?" musingly.

"Gabrielle, Gabrielle!" reproachfully.

"Very well, dear. If you have a secret I should be the last to force
it from you."

"See!" cried Anne, suddenly and eagerly; "there is Monsieur du Cévennes
and his friend coming up the path. Do you not think that there is
something manly about the Chevalier's head?"

"I will study it some day; that is, if I feel the desire."

"Do you really hate him?"

"Hate him? Faith, no; that would be admitting that he interested me."

The Chevalier and the poet carried axes. They had been laboring since
five o'clock that morning superintending the construction of a wharf.
In truth, they were well worth looking at: the boyishness of one and
the sober manliness of the other, the clear eyes, tanned skin, the
quick, strong limbs. The poet's eye was always roving, and he quickly