She smiled at him now. "That is true," she said.

"Then what reason can you have? None, none. 'Pon honour, I believe you
are afraid of marriage because it's marriage. By my life, there's naught
to dread. A little giving here and taking there, and it's easy. And
when a woman is all that's good, to a man, it can be done without fear or
trembling. Even the Cure would tell you that."

"Ah, I know, I know," she said, in a voice half painful, half joyous.
"I know that it is so. But, oh, dear Monsieur, I cannot marry you--
never--never."

He hung on bravely. "I want to make life easy and happy for you. I want
the right to do so. When trouble comes upon you--"

"When it does I will turn to you--ah, yes, I would turn to you without
fear, dear Monsieur," she said, and her heart ached within her, for a
premonition of sorrow came upon her and filled her eyes, and made her
heart like lead within her breast. "I know how true a gentleman you
are," she added. "I could give you everything but that which is life
to me, which is being, and soul, and the beginning and the end."

The weight of the revealing hour of her life, its wonder, its agony, its
irrevocability, was upon her. It was giving new meanings to existence-
primitive woman, child of nature as she was. All morning she had longed
to go out into the woods and bury herself among the ferns and bracken,
and laugh and weep for very excess of feeling, downright joy and vague
woe possessing her at once. She looked the Seigneur in the eyes with
consuming earnestness.