“Not yours, nor any one’s, but my father’s.”
“Whom you shall see again if he be alive.”
“Mère Michelle is calling me; I must go.”
“You will let me say good-by to you here.”
“Yes; but it need not be a long farewell I hope.”
He caught her hands and pressed fervent kisses upon them. “God bless thee, now and forever,” he murmured.
“He is so good, that Pierre,” thought Alaine, as she walked slowly toward the house. “Ciel! who would dream that he could say such things, he is so grave and solemn, my owl Pierre. I am very fond of him, I confess, but a maid has many minds, and now I have begun to fancy that blue eyes, sleepy blue eyes,—no, not always sleepy,—but honest blue eyes, may be more charming than black or brown. Black I like not; no, I like them not. I fear it will be, Adieu, Pierre; yet if you bring my father to me I keep my promise, good Pierre. I am very foolish; a maid should not let her fancy rove when her parents have made a choice for her.”
“Alaine, Alaine!” called a voice from the garden.
“Yes, yes, Gerard, I come. Here I am,” she answered.
The young man waiting for Alaine at the edge of the garden was gazing over field and orchard. The young trees but a year ago planted gave promise of thriving well, and of supplying luscious peaches or bouncing apples. The treasured vines, so carefully guarded in their transport from France, had grown sufficiently to twist their slender tendrils around the trellis built for them. In the garden-beds flourished endive, chicory, and those garden-stuffs dear to the French palate. Beyond the enclosure stretched fields of maize yellow for the harvest.