Celeste was in the garden, binding up a broken rose-bush—looking paler, but lovelier than ever. She uttered a half-stifled cry as she saw him, and the last trace of color faded from her face as he leaped from his horse and stood beside her.
"Celeste, what means this?" he demanded, impetuously. "Do you really believe this tale told you by Minnette?"
"Oh, Louis, is it not true?" exclaimed Celeste, clasping her hands.
"True! Celeste, Celeste! do you take me to be such a villain? As heaven hears me, I never spoke a word of love to her in my life!"
This was true in the letter, but not in the spirit. He had never spoken of love to Minnette, but he had looked it often enough.
"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Celeste, impulsively, while she bowed her face in her hands and wept.
"Dear Celeste," said Louis, drawing her gently toward him, "do you retract those cruel words you have written? You will not give me up, will you?"
"Oh, no! not now," replied Celeste, yielding to his embrace. "Oh, Louis, what do you suppose made Minnette say such dreadful things to me last night?"
"Because—I beg you will not think me conceited, dearest—she fancies she loves me, and is jealous of you. Perhaps, too, she thinks if I did not love you, I might return her affection; and the only way to end her chimerical hopes is by our immediate union. Say, dear love, when will you be mine?"
"Oh, Louis! I do not know," said Celeste, blushing scarlet. "I do not want to be married so soon, and—you must ask your grandfather."