Weeks passed. Day after day found Louis at Valley Cottage, reading and talking, or walking with Celeste. And she—there was no mistaking that quick flushing, that involuntary smile, that sudden brightening of the eye, at the sound of his footstep or the tones of his voice. Yes, the Star of the Valley was wooed and won. And all this time Minnette sat in her own room, alone, wrapped in her own gloomy thoughts as in a mantle—the same cold, impassible Minnette as ever. Yet there was a lurid lightning, a blazing fire, at times, in her eye, that might have startled any one had it been seen.
One bright moonlight night in July Louis and Celeste were wandering slowly along the rocky path leading to the cottage. Even in the moonlight could be seen the bright flush that overspread her fair face, as she listened, with drooping head and downcast eyes, to his low, love-toned words.
"And so you love me, my sweet Celeste, better than all the world?" he asked softly.
"Oh, yes!" was the answer, almost involuntarily breathed.
"And you will be my wife, Celeste?"
"Oh, Louis! Your grandfather will never consent."
"And if he does not, what matter?" cried Louis, impetuously. "I am my own master, and can marry whom I please."
"Louis—Louis! do not talk so. I would never marry you against his will."
"No, certainly not. It would be wrong, you know."