“Never, never! France is beautiful, but this is my home,” gazing about her. “This Canada, that France so basely deserted. The English conquered us, protected us, and now the British flag is mine. We are Canadians, Stanton, you and I; do not talk of France, and yet—and yet,” losing her enthusiasm and speaking with a sweet and feminine softness, “if it is for your good I will go to a desert with you.”
He opened his mouth to reply to her, but she laid a finger across his lips. “Stanton,” eagerly, “are you sure you would be happy to leave here? You have great cares, great worries; but reflect—you are no longer a boy. Can you tear yourself from your native land, and become happy in another where you know no one? I think perhaps you might even long for some of the old anxieties. Are you sure that you would not regret the change?”
“I am sure of nothing except that I love you,” he said passionately; “and I will not do anything that you do not approve of.”
“Then you will at once cease embracing me,” she said, and darted away from him.
He soon caught up to her, and folding her fingers securely within his, went flying before the north wind over the ice and arrived at the Pinewood bank to find the skating party a dream. Every trace of it had vanished—even the smoking embers of the bonfire had been carried away. On coming nearer they found one solitary seat that had been left, and on it Vivienne’s slippers laid conspicuously by her cloak.
“Stanton, I wish to do something for Joe,” she said.
“Well, darling, what shall it be?”
“Will you always keep him, Stanton? He is a watchful servant.”
“We will keep him,” with gentle emphasis. “And now do you think you can do without an escort up the bank? I wish to see Joe about something at the cottage before he curls up for the night.”
“It looks dark up there,” said Vivienne wistfully.