more. Though he was wholly reckless for himself, for her he was prudent
now--there was nothing else to do. To save her--if he could but save her
from himself! If he might only put back the clock!

In his letter to her he had simply said that it were wiser not to write,
since the acting postmistress, the Cure's sister, would note the exchange
of letters, and this would arouse suspicion. He could not see what was
best to do, what was right to do. To wait seemed the only thing, and his
one letter ended with the words: Rosalie, my life is lived only in the
thought of you. There is no hour but I think of you, no moment but you
are with me. The greatest proof of love that man can give, I will give
to you, in the hour fate wills--for us. But now, we must wait--we must
wait, Rosalie. Do not write to me, but know that if I could go to you I
would go; if I could say to you, Come, I would say it. If the giving of
my life would save you any pain or sorrow, I would give it.

Sitting on his bench at work, it seemed to Charley that sometimes she was
near him, and more than once he turned quickly round as though she were,
in very truth, standing beside him. He thought of her continually, and
often with an unbearable pain. He figured her in his mind as pale and
distressed, and always her eyes had the piteous terror of that last look
as she went away over the hills.

But the weeks had worn on, then the Seigneur, who had been to Montreal,
came back with the news that Rosalie was looking as beautiful as a
picture. "Grown a woman in beauty and in stature; comely--comely as a
lady in a Watteau picture, my dear messieurs!" he had said to the Cure,
standing in the tailor's shop.

Replying, the Cure had said: "She is in good hands, with good people,