"Well, good-bye, my friend," he said, and held out his hand. "I must be
going now."

"Wait," she said, and there was something insistent and yet pleading in
her voice. "I've got something to say. You must hear it. . . . Why
should you go? There is my farm--it needs to be worked right. It has
got good chances. It has water-power and wood and the best flax in the
province--they want to start a flax-mill on it--I've had letters from big
men in Montreal. Well, why shouldn't you do it instead? There it is,
the farm, and there am I a woman alone. I need help. I've got no head.
I have to work at a sum of figures all night to get it straight. . . .
Ah, m'sieu', it is a need both sides! You want someone to look after
you; you want a chance again to do things; but you want someone to look
after you, and it is all waiting there on the farm. Palass Poucette left
behind him seven sound horses, and cows and sheep, and a threshing-
machine and a fanning-mill, and no debts, and two thousand dollars in the
bank. You will never do anything away from here. You must stay here,
where--where I can look after you, Jean Jacques."

The light in his eyes flamed up, died down, flamed up again, and
presently it covered all his face, as he grasped what she meant.

"Wonder of God, do you forget?" he asked. "I am married--married still,
Virginie Poucette. There is no divorce in the Catholic Church--no, none
at all. It is for ever and ever."

"I said nothing about marriage," she said bravely, though her face
suffused.

"Hand of Heaven, what do you mean? You mean to say you would do that for