"You can't tell that," interrupted Robin--"men often say they can
only love once--but they love ever so many times--"

She smiled--and her eyes showed him what a stupid blunder he had
made.

"Do they?" she queried, softly--"I am so glad, Robin! For you will
find it easy then to love somebody else instead of me!"

He flushed, vexedly.

"I didn't mean that--" he began.

"No? I think you did!--but of course if you had thought twice you
wouldn't have said it! It was uttered quite truly and naturally,
Robin!--don't regret it! Only I want to explain to you that the
Sieur Amadis was not like that--he loved just once--and the lady
he loved must have been a very beautiful woman who had plenty of
admirers and did not care for him at all. All he writes proves
that. He is always grieved to the heart about it. Still he loved
her--and he seems glad to have loved her, though it was all no
use. And he kept a little chronicle of his dreams and fancies--all
that he felt and thought about,--it is beautifully and tenderly
written all in quaint old French. I had some trouble to make it
out--but I did at last--every word--and when he made up his mind
to marry, he finished the little book and never wrote another word
in it. Shall I tell you what were the last lines he wrote?"

"It wouldn't be any use," he answered, kissing again the hand he
held--"I don't understand French. I've never even tried to learn