nursing the precious memory of the thing in his bosom, and feasting his imagination upon its corollaries. Anon, another word, look, gesture, what not, would plunge him into the darkest pit of despondency and dejection, and afflict his heart with the sickness of hope deferred. A thousand times he resolved to set his spirit at rest by speaking to her. A thousand times he changed his mind, saying, "No, not just yet. Wait a little longer." Again and again, of course, he had rehearsed in fancy the scene that would take place between them: what he would say, and how he would say it; what she would say, and how she would say it; and all the rest. But he dared not put his fortune to the touch. The chance of rejection was too appalling. "No, no; not yet. I must give her time to become a little better acquainted with me." Besides, would it be quite the thing for him to declare his passion to her, until he had received from his mother an answer to his letter of August 12th? Until his mother's answer should arrive, he must consider himself in a certain sense betrothed to another woman. This consideration, however, was a secondary and incidental one, and had very little real weight with him, as events presently proved.
The days and the weeks slipped away with breath-taking speed. Suddenly, lo! it was September 24th, and to-morrow night he must leave Paris for Havre; and still—ill omen!—the expected letter from his mother had not come; and still he was in doubt about his fate.
"Well, I can't wait any longer," he said. "I've been a fool to wait so long. To-night I'll call upon her, and get the doctor to leave us alone together; and—and then"
Ah, how his heart bounded at the prospect!
That afternoon he walked in the Luxembourg Gardens. The sunset had faded, and it had grown almost dark, before he left them. He emerged by a gate that led into Rue de Vaugirard. He had just entered that thoroughfare, and was sauntering slowly in the direction of the Boulevard St.-Michel, when, from behind, a pedestrian, whose gait was faster than his own, overtook and passed him. What was his surprise, his delight, to recognize in this personage—as he did, at once—none other than Denise! She was hurrying along as rapidly as her tiny footsteps could bear her.
A few swift strides brought him nearly abreast of her.
"Mademoiselle—Mademoiselle Denise!" he called.
Hearing this voice, quite unexpectedly, so close to her ear, and before she had seen the speaker, frightened her thoroughly. She started, shrank away toward the curbstone, gave a little cry, and then stood motionless, as though uncertain whether to fly or to stand her ground.
He understood in an instant how careless he had been. He could have flogged himself. His emotions overwhelmed him, defied restraint, rushed to his lips, and were uttered before he knew it:
"Why—Denise—don't—don't you know me? Oh, did I frighten you? Oh, forgive me—forgive me, Denise—my—my little girl."
She looked up at him, face blanched, eyes big with fear.
"Oh, it is you!" she cried, with a great sigh of relief; and impulsively she put out her hand, and caught his arm.
