“Mademoiselle, you must pardon your father. Three hours ago I had the honor to ask of him your hand in marriage, and he had the goodness to accord it to me. He does not know that we have had no conversation on this matter since, and that therefore such words must fall upon you with a shock.”
“Did you—were you—” she stammered, “thinking of this when you—”
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Jean, “whatever I have ever done or said has been more for your sake than my own; believe that.” And he threw a glance at M. Lepage which she could not fail to understand.
Hiding her face in her hands, Elise knelt by the bedside. She could feel her father’s hand fall on her head, caressingly, lingeringly. In a minute more she heard him say:
“He is a good man; you will marry him, Elise?” Then as she did not answer, he added softly, “I should die so happy.”
With a spring she stood upright. “Jean Picard,” she said, “do you wish me for your wife?”
A great light which she could not help noticing in that solemn hour settled slowly over all his face.
“There is nothing I wish so much,” he answered; “it has been my dream for months.”
“After what you know of my heart?” she murmured, but so low the dying man could not hear her.