him she cared for him that even now he half doubted whether she really
did, in spite of the truthfulness in her great brown eyes, when she
repeated the refrain of that old French song. And the lawyer had said she
would forget in a month, like all other girls, and she was not different
from other girls. Yes, it was a difficult question to decide, there was
no doubt about that. He despised himself for thinking of giving up Marie,
the mere thought horrified him, and yet--Dunmorton, ease, riches, luxury!

To give all these up without a struggle would have been difficult, even
to a more heroic nature than Noël McAllister's.

There was not long, however, for him to decide the question, and as
evening came on, and he thought that by next morning the die must be cast
one way or the other, his head ached with the effort of anxious thought.
Fresh air he felt he must have, so he went out from the cottage, and
walked hurriedly down the road.

The moon was shining cold and clear, showing distinctly the delicate
tracery of each branch and leaf overhanging the pathway. The cold, clear
light threw into strong relief each giant maple tree darkly looming
against the silvery evening sky.

McAllister walked hurriedly on, deeply thinking, for about a quarter of
a mile. His head was bent, and he saw nothing, so absorbed was he in
his own meditations. Presently, however, a figure crossed his path.
He started, and looked up to see a girl in a red cloak standing in the
pathway. She stopped before him. It was Marie Gourdon, the last person in
the world he wished to meet just then.

"Marie, my dear one," he said, "what are you doing out so far alone, and