Half an hour later he came into the Agency sitting -room, where the others were waiting, with a quick step and sparkling eyes, and, with the tone and manner of a young conqueror, announced, “Dr. Gaston, and all of you, I am going to marry Annet. We are engaged.

Dr. Gaston, who was standing, sat down as though struck down. Miss Lois jumped up, and began to laugh and cry in a breath. Père Michaux, who was sitting with his injured foot resting on a stool, ground his hands down suddenly on the arms of his chair with a sharp displeasure visible for an instant on his face. But only for an instant; it was gone before any one saw it.

“Oh, my darling boy!”  Said Miss Lois, with her arms round Rast’s neck. “I always knew you would. You are made for each other, and always were. Now we shall have you both with us always, thank the Lord!”  Then she sobbed again, and took a fresh and tighter hold of him. “I’ll take the boys, dear; you need not be troubled with them. And I’ll come over here and live, so that you and Annet can have the church-house; it’s in much better repair; only there should be a new chimney. The dearest wish of my heart is now fulfilled, and I am quite ready to die.”

Rast was kind always; it was simply impossible for him to say or do anything, which could hurt the feelings of any one present. Such a course is sometimes contradictory, since those who are absent likewise have their feelings; but it is always at the moment agreeable. He kissed Miss Lois affectionately, thanked her, and led her to her chair; nor did he stop there, but stood beside her with her hand in his until she began to recover her composure, wipe her eyes, and smile.  Then he went across to Dr. Gaston, his faithful and early friend.

“I hope I have your approval, sir?” he said, looking very tall and handsome as he stood by the old man’s chair.

“Yes, yes,” said the chaplain, extending his hand.  “I was—I was startled at first, of course; you have both seemed like children to me. But if it must be, it must be. Only— make her happy, Rast; make her happy.”

“I shall try, sir.”

“Come, doctor, acknowledge that you have always expected it,” said Miss Lois, breaking into permanent sunshine, and beginning to wipe her spectacles in a business- like way, which showed that the moisture was ended for the present.

“No—yes; I hardly know what I have expected,” answered the chaplain, still a little suffocated, and speaking thickly. “I do not think I have expected anything.”

“Is there any one else you would prefer to have Rast marry? Answer me that.” “No, no; certainly not.”

“Is there any one you would prefer to have Anne marry?”

“Why need she marry at all?” said the chaplain, boldly, breaking through the chain of questions closing round him.  “I am sure you yourself are a bright example, Miss Hinsdale, of the merits of single life.”

But, to his surprise, Miss Lois turned upon him.

“What! Have Anne live through my loneliness, my always-being-misunderstood-ness, my general sense of a useless ocean within me, its breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast?”  She said, quoting vehemently from the only poem she knew. “Never!”

While Dr. Gaston was still gazing at her, Rast turned to Père Michaux. “I am sure of your approval,” he said, smiling confidently. “I have had no doubt of that.”

“Haven’t you?” said the priest, dryly.

“No, sir: you have always been my friend.”

“And I shall continue to be,” said Père Michaux. But he rose as he spoke, and hobbled into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Tita was hurrying through the garden on her way from the heights; he waited for her. “Where have you been?” he asked, sternly.

The child seemed exhausted, her breath came in panting gasps; her skirt was torn, her hair streaming, and the dark red hue of her face was changed to a yellow pallor.

“I have run and run, I have followed and followed, I have listened with my ear on the ground; I have climbed trees to look, I have torn a path through bushes, and I have not found them,” she said, huskily, a slight froth on her dry lips as she spoke, her eyes bright and feverish.

“They are here,” said Père Michaux;  “they have been at home some time. What can you have been about, Angélique?”

“I have told you,” said the child, rolling her apron tightly in her small brown hands. “I followed his track. He went down the north path. I traced him for a mile; then I lost him. In the fir wood. Then I crept, and looked, and listened.”

“You followed Rast, then, when I told you to go to Anne! Enough. I thought, at least, you were quick, Tita; but it seems you are dull—dull as an owl,” said the priest, turning away.