I helped Louise into the coach with her sister and the Comte de Brovel. D'ri and I rode on behind them, the village folk cheering and waving their hats,
"Ye done it skilful," said D'ri, smiling. "Whut'd I tell ye?"
I made no answer, being too full of happiness at the moment.
"Tell ye one thing, Ray," he went on soberly: "ef a boy an' a gal loves one 'nother, an' he has any grit in 'im, can't nuthin' keep 'em apart long."
He straightened the mane of his horse, and then added:—
"Ner they can't nuthin' conquer 'em."
Soon after two o'clock we turned in at the chateau.
We were a merry company at luncheon, the doctor drinking our health and happiness with sublime resignation. But I had to hurry back—that was the worst of it all. Louise walked with me to the big gate, where were D'ri and the horses. We stopped a moment on the way.
"Again?" she whispered, her sweet face on my shoulder. "Yes, and as often as you like. No more now—there is D'ri. Remember, sweetheart, I shall look and pray for you day and night."