"And he had not done anything so very dreadful after all," said Archie, laughing.
"Let us enumerate his crimes," replied Blanche, counting on her fingers. "First, he had disobeyed father's orders by harnessing to the carriage an unruly three-year-old filly which was scarcely to be managed even in a sleigh. Secondly, after a hard tussle with the rash young driver, the filly had taken the bit in her teeth, and as the first proof of her freedom had crushed the unhappy cow belonging to our neighbor Widow Maurice."
"A most happy accident for said widow," interposed Archie, "for your father replaced the old animal with two of the finest heifers in his pastures. I remember the anxiety of the poor woman when she learned that some officious spectator had informed your father of the accident. How does it happen that the people whom Jules tormented most assiduously are just the ones who were most devoted to him? What is the spell by which he compels everybody to love him? Widow Maurice used to have hardly a moment's peace while we were home for the holidays; yet she was always in tears when she came to bid Jules good-by."
"The reason is not far to seek," said Blanche. "It is that all know his kind heart. You know, moreover, by experience, Archie, that those whom he loves best are just the ones that he teases most unremittingly. But let us continue our enumeration of his misdemeanors on that unlucky day! Thirdly, after killing the cow, the ugly brute ran against a fence, broke one of the wheels, and hurled the driver fifteen feet into the meadow beyond; but Jules, who always falls on his feet, like a cat, was in no way the worse for this adventure. Fourthly, and lastly, after smashing the carriage to splinters on the rocks of the Trois Saumons River, the mare ended by breaking her own legs on the shore, over in the parish of L'Islet."
"Yes," added Archie, "and I remember how eloquently you pleaded for the culprit, who, in despair at having so deeply offended so good a father, was in danger of proceeding to rash extremities against himself. 'Dear papa,' you said, 'should you not rather thank heaven for having preserved Jules's life? What matters the loss of a cow, a horse, a carriage? You might have seen his bleeding body brought home to you!' 'Come, let us talk no more about it,' was your father's reply. 'Go and look for your rascal of a brother, for I doubt not you and Archie know where he has taken refuge after his nice performances!' "I see yet," continued Archie, "the half-penitent, half-comical air of Jules when he knew the storm had blown over. 'What, my father,' he ended by saying, after listening to some energetic remonstrances, 'would you have preferred to see me dragged to my death, like another Hippolytus, by the horse which your hands had nourished to be the murderer of your son? Would you have chosen to see my ensanguined locks dangling on the brambles?' To which the captain answered: 'Come, let's to supper, since there seems to be a God for such madcaps as you.' 'Now, that's more like the way to talk to a fellow,' was Jules's response. I never could quite understand," continued Archie, "why your father, who is ordinarily so unforgiving, used to forgive and forget so easily any offense of Jules."
"Father knows," said Blanche, "that Jules loves him devotedly, and would endure anything to spare him pain. For all his headlong thoughtlessness, Jules could never offend my father deeply."
"Now that we have called up so many pleasant memories," said Archie, "let us sit down on this hillock where we have so often before rested, and let us speak of more serious matters. I have decided to settle in Canada. I have lately sold a property which was left to me by one of my cousins. My fortune, although but moderate in the old country, will be counted large out here, where my happiest days have been spent, and where I propose to live and die among my friends. What do you say, Blanche?"
"Nothing in the world could please us more. Oh, how happy Jules will be, how glad we will all be!"
"Yes, you will all be pleased, doubtless; but my happiness can never be perfect, Blanche, unless you will consent to make it so by giving me your hand. I love—"
The girl sprang to her feet as if an adder had stung her. With trembling lips and pale with anger, she cried: