“Comtesse, it is not gratitude I care for. Will you do me a favor—will you make me a promise?”
Helène looked at him with wide, questioning eyes.
“I want you to tell me—that you will take no important step in the near future until I see you again. Promise me that you will call on me if you need help? Will you do this, for me, Comtesse?”
The deep, resonant tones in which he uttered these words swept over her like the music from a fine-stringed instrument. It brought from her responsive chords which found expression in involuntary sighs. She felt a curious pride and realized that she was happy and inexplicably glad to obey when that voice commanded.
“I promise,” she whispered. Then her voice gathering strength she went on: “I do not know why you should value the friendship of an inexperienced girl, but I am proud that you ask for it.”
Reverently Morton bowed over the little hand he had been holding, afraid to trust his eyes to look at her face, and kissing it softly, released it.
“Thank you—and God bless you.”
Gathering up his rug and rifle he hurriedly left the room. Helène remained motionless for a time, then she slowly turned to the window, on her lips a happy smile and in her eyes a new lustre. The first rays of the now risen sun shot through the serrated tops of the forest and found their straight paths into the embrasure of the window, casting a wondrous light on her dreamy face. Her heart felt light as thistledown. She saw the flowers opening—how beautiful they were! Unconsciously her eyes fell upon the hand he had held—she still felt the lingering imprint of his lips on it, and her face took on a color that rivalled the rosy tints of the dawn. The great secret of nature had been imparted to her. She could not speak of it in words, even to herself, for the power of it had overcome her. Instead, her hands mutely unfolded like a flower opening under the morning’s sunlight, and her face shone as if transfigured.