"What I said the other day I meant. I do not change my mind—I am too old for that. Yet I'm young enough to know that you may change yours."
"I cannot change, Monsieur," she said tremblingly.
"But you will change. I knew your mother well, I know how anxious she was for your future. I told her once that I should keep an eye on you always. Her father was my father's good friend. I knew you when you were in the cradle—a little brown-haired babe. I watched you till you went to the convent. I saw you come back to take up the duties which your mother laid down, alas!—"
"Monsieur—!" she said choking, and with a troubled little gesture.
"You must let me speak, Rosalie. We got your father this post-office. It is a poor living, but it keeps a roof over your head. You have never failed us you have always fulfilled our hopes. But the best years of your life are going, and your education and your nature have not their chance. Oh, I've not watched you all these years for nothing. I never meant to ask you to marry me. It came to me, though, all at once, and I know that it has been in my mind all these years—far back in my mind. I don't ask you for my own sake alone. Your father may grow very ill— who can tell what may happen!"
"I should be postmistress still," she said sadly.
"As a young girl you could not have the responsibility here alone. And you should not waste your life it is a fine, full spirit; let the lean, the poor-spirited, go singly. You should be mated. You can't marry any of the young farmers of Chaudiere. 'Tis impossible. I can give you enough for any woman's needs—the world may be yours to see and use to your heart's content. I can give, too"—he drew himself up proudly—" the unused emotions of a lifetime." This struck him as a very fine and important thing to say.
"Ah, Monsieur, that is not enough," she responded. "What more can you want?"
She looked up with a tearful smile. "I will tell you one day, Monsieur."
"What day?"