* * * * *
Night was fully come. Louisa's voice roused old Jean Michel from the torpor into which he had sunk by the fireside as he thought of the sorrows of the past and present.
"It must be late, father," said the young woman affectionately. "You ought to go home; you have far to go."
"I am waiting for Melchior," replied the old man.
"Please, no. I would rather you did not stay."
"Why?"
The old man raised his head and looked fiercely at her.
She did not reply.
He resumed.
"You are afraid. You do not want me to meet him?"