So things went on for a while; and then came a change. One day Marie
came into the sitting-room, hearing Abby call her. It was the hour of
De Arthenay's daily visit, and he sat silent in the corner, as usual;
but Abby had an open letter in her hand, and was crying softly, with
her apron hiding her good homely face. "Maree," said the good woman,
"I've got bad news. My sister Lizzie that I've told you so much about,
she's dreadful sick, and I've got to go right out and take care of her.
Thank you, dear!" (as she felt Marie's arms round her on the instant,
and the soft voice murmured little French sympathies in her ear),
"you're real good, I'm sure, and I know you feel for me. I've got to
go right off to-morrow or next day, soon as I can get things to rights
and see to the stock and things. But what is troubling me is you,
Maree. I don't see what is to become of you, poor child, unless--Well,
now, you come here and sit down by me, and listen to what Mr. De
Arthenay has to say to you. You know he's ben your friend, Maree, ever
sence you come; so you listen to him, like a good girl."

Abby was in great trouble: indeed, she was the most agitated of the
three, for it was with outward calm, at least, that De Arthenay spoke;
and Marie listened quietly, too, plaiting her apron, between her
fingers, and forgetting for the moment to make the horns with her left
hand. Briefly, he asked her to be his wife; to come home with him, and
keep his house, and share good and evil with him. He would take care
of her, he said, and--and--he trusted the Lord would bless the union.
If his voice shook now and then, if he kept his eyes lowered, that
neither woman should see the light and the struggle in them, that was
his own affair; he spoke quietly to the end, and then drew a long
breath, feeling that he had come through better than he had expected.

Abby looked for an outburst of some kind from Marie, whether of tears