THE WEST SHORE.
53
aunt, too, wishes to leave Pont-Avize, and so they wish
they would like," Bays the girl, suddenly embarrassed,
" to see me provided for."
" You must not go bauk to the convent, whatever you
do," cries Horace, throwing away his cigar. "What
should I do if I returned to find you shut up behind high
walls?"
" You need not foar, I have no vocation," she answers,
smiling.
"What will you do, then?"
" Indeed I do not know."
" But I know, says the young man quickly. " You
will be married"
" I think not I do not think any one will marry
me."
" And why not? if I may ask the question." lie feels
unreasonably offended, as if some ouo else had mado the
remark.
" I have so little fortune," she says, rather shame
faced. " Papa is not a rich man, and though I am an
only child "
" What do, little wild roses want with fortunes ? Tell
ine you need not be afraid to tell me would you liko
to bo married ? "
"Yes," hesitating; "but it is not likely. My aunt had
a better dot than I shall ever have, and no one wished to
marry her."
Horace, thinking of Mademoisello Stephanie's thin
lips and sharp features, could laugh outright but Hint ho
is piqued by the girl's frankness. Sho was shy enough
of him a while ago; has her delicate instinct told her that
if he can speak lightly on such a subject she need bo shy
of him no longer?
" In England we do not think so much of money," ho
says coldly; and thou a disagreeable recollection comes
across him of his father's feelings on tlio subject, and
of the fortune of the old family, which he, the eldest
s in, is one day to retrieve by an alliance with a newer
mono but better filled coffers. "To-morrow is Sunday,
is it not?" he sayB, abruptly changing tho subject
" What do you do on Sundays ? Oh, I romemlKir; you
walk with your friends, Madamo Langr6 ami her daugh
ters, after vosjMsrs. I shall walk with you also."
"Indeed that is not permitted," cries Aimee, eagerly.
" You could not come with us, but papa will no doubt
take you for a walk," she adds, seeing ho looks discom
litted. " Not if my company is so littlo desired," ho says,
rather crossly.
in.
" Aimee make haste; tuko off your hat," says Madem
oiselle Stephanie, as they stop at their own door on their
return from the church tho next afternoon. " Your papa
wishes to see vou in the study."
M. Laval is seated at his writing-bible when Aimee
comes to him in oldionce to this command.
"That is riiht como in. Dir datiuhter," ho says in a
tone whioli in mount L lx encourairinir. " You woudor
why I desired to seo you. It is nothing disagreeable, I
assure you. Come, I givo you leave to guess what it is
that I menu."
" I -I do not understand you, papa," says Aimee, fal-
teringly.
" Aimee, a pioco of singular grnal fortune has befallen
you. should all go on as prosperously as it has beiiun,
an unexpected, indeed I may say, an undottorved and
happy lot awaits you. M. Ulanchard, good, excellent M.
Dlanchard, whoso business becomes more prosperous
every day, is content to sue for tho hand of my young
daughter of yon, yourself, Aimee."
Ho pauses and strikes his hand on tho table to empha
size his words.
As for Aimee, she is struck dumb. All tho color
fades from her cheeks, which wero so sweetly flushed but
now.
" Of mo ? " sho murmurs. " It is impossible."
"It is indeed an honor, my child;" but M. Laval is
not so unmindful as ho appears to bo of those paling
cheeks. " I do not wonder that you are overcomo with
astonishment that you, my simple little girl, should have
attracted so sensible and honorable a man." . .
" M. Ulanchard is very good," says tho girl in it low
voice, " but- but -I liavo no thought of marrying."
"Of what, then, do you think ?" cries M. Iaval, ex
asperated. "Of tho convent and your aunt Nathalie,
perhaps! No, no, my daughter," ho adds in a milder
tone, "you need not lio alarmed. M. Itlanchard will givo
you time to transfer to him tho sffcctii lis which havn
liecn centered, as is proper, noii your aunt, your piano,
your young companions; ami I shall wait patiently for
tho happy day when I shall seo my only daughter tho
wife of that estimable man. Cio now; put on your pretti
est dress; M. Itlanchard may ooine in this evening."
M. lHanchard comes after dinner when they are oiico
more seated in tho stiff liltln drawing-room. Ho Imiws to
tho company generally, and then with an air of perfect
assuranco ho soats himself by AimeVs side.
He holies that sho is not fatigued by her walk. Hlis
replies in the negative, and then ho makes another effort
He would bo much honored n sho will sometimes warn
with her aunt in his grounds.
" You aro very obliging, monsieur, h says shyly.
" Not at all. It I solitary garden; a lonely house,"
W 111 . I I -.1... ....M I A ..f.tittlHt.tMl If lia
says ju. inaui'iiarii, wiw "
Ho they carry on tlio conversation siier mo saino
fashion a littlo longer, and then M. I-aval, arelng how
matter stand, wisely interrupt tho rViwi-lVfV.
Horace has, however, only tho opiH.rtuiiity to say
a few word to her apart this evening.
"Not ouo kind word or look, all day, Mademoiselle
Aimee; what havo I done ? "
"Oh, nothing, nothing!" cries tho poor child. Hho
can hardly keep back her tear. Tho day sha thought
would I bright has ended so iuierably.
"Never mind," cries Horse gaily; her unifit dis
composure Las rentortd his good humor."