"You are very kind," she answers, trying hard to be cordial and grateful for his generosity. "I do not know how to thank you for your munificence, sir."
"I will tell you," he answers, quickly. "Try to like me a little, Bonnibel. Once I dreamed of winning your love; but things went wrong and I—I—perhaps I was too harsh with the bonny bird I had caught—so I came near earning your hatred instead. But that was so long ago. You will try to forgive me and like me just a little now, my wife."
The pathos of his words, his aged, weary looks touch a tender chord in her young heart, and thaw out a little of the icy crust of reserve that has been freezing around it these two years.
She rises impulsively and walks over to him, putting her delicate hand, warm with youth and health, into his cold, white, trembling one.
"Indeed, I will try," she says, earnestly. "Only be kind to me, and do not frighten me with your jealous fancies, and I will like you very much indeed!"
He kisses the little hand with the ardor of a boyish lover, feeling his heart beat warm and youthful still at her gently-spoken words.
"A thousand thanks, my angel!" he exclaims. "Your words have made me very happy. I will try to curb my jealous temper and merit your sweet regard. And now, my dearest, how soon can you accompany me? I do not want to go away without you."
"You wish me to go at once—to-day?" she stammers, drawing back ever so slightly.
"To-day—at once," he answers. "I have wearied for a sight of you so long, my wife, that I cannot let you go again. I want you to put on a carriage costume at once, and I will take you to Worth's, and from thence to the chateau."
"But my maid—and my trunks," she urges, in dismay.