"And my congratulations," said she, giving me her hand. "She has wit and beauty, a true heart, a great fortune, and—good luck in having your love."
I raised my hat, blushing to the roots of my hair.
"It is a pretty compliment," I said. "And—and I have no gift of speech to thank you. I am not a match for you except in my love of kindness and—and of Louison. You have made me happier than I have been before."
"If I have made you alert, ingenious, determined, I am content," was her answer. "I know you have courage."
"And will to use it."
"Good luck and adieu!" said she, with a fine flourish of her whip; those people had always a pretty politeness of manner.
"Adieu," I said, lifting my hat as I rode off, with a prick of the spur, for the road was long and I had lost quite half an hour.
My elation gave way to sober thought presently. I began to think of Louise—that quiet, frank, noble, beautiful, great-hearted girl, who might be suffering what trouble I knew not, and
