"Upon my honour, Cure, you shall write your little philosophies for the world," said M. Rossignol, and then knocked at the door.
"I will go in alone, Maurice," the Cure urged. "Good-you are right," answered the other. "I will go write the proclamation denying strangers the valley after Wednesday. I will enforce it, too," he added, with vigour, and, turning, walked up the street, as Mrs. Flynn admitted the Cure to the post-office.
A half-hour later M. Loisel again appeared at the post-office door, a pale, beautiful face at his shoulder.
He had not been brave enough to say what was on his mind. But as he bade her good-bye, he plucked up needful courage.
"Forgive me, Rosalie," he said, "but I have sometimes thought that you have more griefs than one. I have thought"—he paused, then went on bravely—"that there might be—there might be unwelcomed love, or love deceived."
A mist came before her eyes, but she quietly and firmly answered: "I have never been deceived in love, Monsieur Loisel."
"There, there!" he hurriedly and gently rejoined. "Do not be hurt, my child. I only want to help you." A moment afterwards he was gone.
As the door closed behind him, she drew herself proudly up.
"I have never been deceived," she said aloud. "I love him—love him—love him."