a feverish cheerfulness. At last she said:

"Where do we go this afternoon, Gaston?"

"We will see," he replied.

The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was
impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned,
entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion
to redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much.

They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats.
Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques,
caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted in
the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient--and
unhappy. So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all!
But he had a will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his
harvest to the useless stubble.

"Do you wish to go back to your work?" he said quietly, once.

"I have no work," she answered apathetically. He said no more just then.

The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be
understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced
crisis might bring about a change. If it failed--he knew not what!
She was sitting in the garden below--he alone in the window, smoking.
A bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were
beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble
in them--he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play