"Of course. Shall I send Pierre in to see?"

She nodded.

At the moment Pierre was certainly a superfluity.

Pierre, disappointment written large on his face, trotted off obediently. He was more than eager to welcome his new master, the nephew of his adored Monsieur Gilles de Varenac.

"You think he will return with him?" asked Gabrielle anxiously, as the old man's steps died away in the distance.

Michael smiled.

"Certainly. These are not the days of fairies and hobgoblins. He can't have been spirited away."

She gave a little sigh of relief.

"I hope he will be here soon. Oh, Michael, I am so happy now that _he_ has learnt his lesson before it is too late, and will break with all those wicked friends."

A pause. Gabrielle, with a swift side-glance, suddenly coloured hotly.

"I--I meant Lord Denningham and Marcel Trouet," she faltered.

Michael sighed heavily.

"Yes," he muttered, "and--my father."

"Your father is different. He is not bad, only weak, like Morice."

"Weakness, such as his, is wickedness. See how it has marred his life and ruined his friends."

She laid her hand on his where it gripped the topmost bar of the wicket-gate.

"Do not talk so," she answered. "Sir Stephen has a--a kind heart; and I think--one day--he will atone."

Michael did not reply, only he raised the comforting hand, kissing it reverently.

With woman's wisdom, she made haste to change a painful subject.

"I should be so afraid if you were not here," she said, with child-like frankness--"so very afraid."

"Of what, little one?"

He still held her hand very closely.

"Lord Denningham. Oh! I hate him, and yet he frightens me. His eyes are horrible."

Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the insolent boldness of my lord's stare when he met her not two hours since in the garden.

"He shall not hurt you, Gabrielle."

She smiled at the a.s.surance in happy trustfulness.

"I know he would not if you were near. Only, when I am alone----"

"Would G.o.d you never were alone."

She looked up with shy, startled eyes, for the cry had come from a man's heart.

"I am used to being alone at Langton," she answered simply.

"Alone!" he answered, bending his dark head closer to hers. "Why should you be, my darling, my darling, when I need you so sorely at Berrington?"

The blushes on her cheeks were not angry ones this time, and her eyes were smiling into his.

"You ... need ... me?"

"Always and for ever, Gabrielle."

"And I need you," she answered, with a happy sigh, as she allowed him to take her in his strong arms, laying her head on his shoulder with the content of a child who is tired of battling alone with life.

Autumn winds may moan, and shadows of coming sorrows may lie deep across life's pathway, but where love's glory sheds its golden light the eyes are too dazzled to look beyond.

So they dreamt of love, finding it the sweeter after past loneliness and troubles, and strengthener, too, for those that lay before. And the melancholy of that grey land touched them not at all, though Celtic blood ran in the veins of both.

But it was the romance of youth's fairest dream, the springtime of love, that was with them now, and they were blind to falling leaves and the dirge of coming gloom after summer sunshine.

It was Pierre who broke the spell of an enchanted hour,--Pierre, who came hurrying back along the path with furrowed brow and anxious eyes.

Monsieur le Marquis was not at the Manor. No one had seen him. In fact, the two Messieurs, who said before that they were his friends, had laughed at him.

But now M'nsieur le Comte had ridden over from Kernak, and desired to see both M. le Marquis and Mademoiselle. He was in haste, M'nsieur le Comte.

The sunshine was fading in Gabrielle's eyes. Shadows were stealing back into hazel depths as she looked up at Michael Berrington.

"What does it mean?" she asked, and turned quickly to Pierre.

"He has not brought Mademoiselle Cecile?"

"No, Mademoiselle; Monsieur le Comte is alone. His business seems to be very urgent. He is eager to see M'nsieur le Marquis and you."

"I will come. But--but----"

Her lips trembled for all her bravery as she looked again at Michael.

"What _has_ happened to Morice?" she whispered piteously.

But Michael, much as he longed to comfort her, could find no answer to the question.