"Fathers and daughters as well as lovers like to be alone together after a long absence, my dear," Segoffin whispered to the housekeeper.

"You are right, Segoffin," replied Suzanne, starting toward the door.

"Ah, Suzanne, what a fine opportunity this would be for a tender interview if we wanted one," said M. Cloarek's clerk as he followed Dame Roberts into the adjoining room.

"Unfortunately love is blind, my poor Segoffin, and you are only half blind yet."

"That will not prevent you from becoming Madame Segoffin," responded our friend, in tones of the most profound conviction. "That which is to be, will be."

CHAPTER XI.

SABINE'S CONFESSION.

When Yvon found himself alone with his daughter, he embraced her again even more pa.s.sionately than before, as if Dame Roberts's presence had been rather a constraint upon the transports of paternal tenderness. .h.i.therto; then making Sabine seat herself on an ottoman near him and taking both her hands in his, he asked:

"And now, how have you been feeling during the last three months, months which have seemed well-nigh interminable to me?"

"Remarkably well, father."

"You look much stronger, I think. Besides--"

"What, my dear father?"

"It may be only a doting father's fancy, fathers have so many of them, but--"

"Let me hear what it is, father."

"It seems to me that you are even prettier than when I went away."

"That must be a doting father's fancy, especially as it implies that I was pretty before you left."

"And who ever doubted it, mademoiselle?"

"I, myself, in the first place."

"Then you never see yourself, or your mirror is a poor one. The more I look at you, the more convinced I am that you look less childish, somehow, and that you have quite a grown-up air."

"How absurd, father! In what does this change consist?"

"I can hardly explain, for your features have not changed, thank Heaven!

but there is an air of sweet and gentle dignity about you that I never noticed before, and an expression of serene happiness on your features."

"How could it be otherwise when you have returned, father? It is something better than joy, it is happiness I feel on seeing you again, and happiness inclines one to be rather quiet and serious, you know."

"If you go on talking in this way my eyes will be so full of tears I shall not be able to see you at all, so let us change the subject. You have been well, you say; that is the main thing, of course, but have you not been lonely and dull here, my poor child? The winter months are so gloomy in the country."

"I have not been lonely a single moment, father. Haven't I my books, and my piano, and my embroidery, and my walks to occupy me?"

"And Suzanne, I scarcely need ask if she has been kind to you?"

"As you know her so well you must know that she has been kindness itself."

"And--"

But Yvon stopped short.

He was on the point of asking Sabine if her nervousness was abating, and if the attacks to which she had been subject from childhood were becoming less frequent, but he feared he might sadden his daughter, and decided it would be better to question the housekeeper on the subject.

So, to cover his sudden pause, he said:

"So you really enjoy yourself here in the country, you say? You have but to express a wish, you know, my dearest. The sea air has been recommended for you, it is true, but the coasts of France are extensive and there is abundant room for choice, and if you prefer any other place--"

"No, father, this place suits me perfectly. The surroundings are delightful, and I feel so much at home here that it would be ungrateful in me to leave the place unless you desire it."

"You know very well that I only desire what you desire."

"That sounds very fine, father."

"What do you mean, my child?"

"I mean that your actions do not always correspond with your words."

"What actions?"

"You say that you only desire what I desire. Yet how often I have begged you to give up the journeys that keep you away from me so much of the time."

"That is different. It is really for your sake, my darling child. I have my reasons."

"Yes, I know, my poor, dear father. It is to enrich me that you devote so much time to your business. But what is the use of so much money? But you have told me nothing about yourself! What kind of a trip did you have this time?"

"A remarkably successful one."

"The roads were better this time, then, and you did not take cold? I am so glad, we had so many snow-storms last month. I used to say to Suzanne again and again while we were sitting by the fire warm and comfortable, 'I am afraid my poor dear father is shivering with cold and making only a couple of miles an hour on account of the snow.'"

"Don't worry any more, my dear child. The trip is over now, and it was not only less fatiguing than usual, but unusually profitable."

"Is that really so? Then why was your return so long delayed, father?"

"A complication of business interests, that is all."

"If you knew how uneasy I always am during your absence! It is foolish, I know, but I shall be spared all these fears hereafter, for you intend to keep your promise, do you not?"

"What promise?"

"Not to travel, or, rather, not to leave me any more."