All these things had flashed through her brain while Monsieur Lamonti was talking, but never for an instant did she waver from what she knew was right and just to herself and to him. As he concluded she lifted her grave, sweet eyes to his face.
"Monsieur Lamonti," she began, and her voice was husky from repressed feeling; "you have indeed surprised me beyond measure, for I certainly never dreamed that you entertained for me the feelings you have expressed—although I have congratulated myself that I possessed your esteem and friendly interest. It grieves me that I am obliged to disappoint you; but, monsieur, I must be true to myself and to you. I could not become the wife of any man unless I had first given him the deepest affection of my heart. While I have, during our relations as employer and employee, learned to regard you as a true friend—my best and almost my only one, I may say, since nearly all who knew me in more prosperous days have deserted me—still, such a regard would satisfy neither you nor me if we should assume closer ties. Believe me, dear Monsieur Lamonti, I feel greatly honored by your preference, and am also deeply grateful to you for your many kindnesses to both my father and myself. Forgive me if there has ever been the slightest indication in my manner to encourage you to infer——"
"There has not, mademoiselle, I assure you," Monsieur Lamonti interposed, as she flushed and faltered; "there has been nothing in your manner at any time to show me that you regarded me other than as a friend. It was alone my affection for you—my intense yearning for the presence of a charming woman in my home, to be a companion to and in sympathy with me and to help me to rear Lucille, which emboldened me to ask you to be my wife. Ah! mademoiselle, you do not know the grief, the sorrow I feel! If you would but reconsider—take time to try to—to grow fond of me; if I could but have a little hope," he concluded in a voice so eager, yet, withal, so sad and tremulous that tears sprang involuntarily to Mollie's eyes.
"Monsieur, it would not be right; I—I could not bid you hope; my answer must be final," she almost sobbed, for his pathetic appeal had very nearly unnerved her. Monsieur Lamonti was very pale; but after a moment of silence he pulled himself together bravely.
"Pardon—pardon, mademoiselle; the sorrow—the annoyance I have occasioned you," he said, with grave courtesy. "I bow to the inevitable; you have been most kind, and we will regard the matter as if it had never been. But, mon ami," and now he turned to her with his old kindly smile, "leaving all that forever, may I now presume to ask a great favor of you?"
"Certainly, monsieur; you must know that anything in my power I would gladly do for you," Mollie cordially, even eagerly, returned.
"Many thanks; but perhaps I am a trifle premature. I should first have told you what I desire before asking your promise. However, you are free to refuse if you find the matter not one to your taste. I have told you that I have no kith or kin—that aside from Lucille, I am absolutely alone in the world. You can readily perceive that, should anything happen to—to remove me, the child would be left without a protector—without a soul to feel the slightest interest in her. Now, mademoiselle, the favor I wish to crave is a great one—will you, in the event of which I have spoken, assume the guardianship of my little girl?"
Mollie's breath was almost taken away again, and she regarded her companion in grave wonderment.
"I, monsieur! Could you trust me with so sacred a charge?" she questioned in a voice of awe. "I am very young; I have never had any experience with children, and it seems a grave responsibility!"
"Mademoiselle, I could trust you with—ah! have I not asked you to care for the greatest treasure the world holds for me, and could I manifest greater confidence in you?" responded Monsieur Lamonti, while he regarded the girl with a look that betrayed far more than his words.