things were going on. Michel Voss was sore and angry, but he said nothing. He sent to his son a couple of hundred francs by his wife, but said no word of explanation even to her. On the following morning George was off without seeing his father. But Marie was up to give him his breakfast. ‘What is the meaning of this, George?’ she said.  ‘Father says that I shall be better away from this,—so I’m going away.’  ‘And why will you be better away?’ To this George made no answer. ‘It will be terrible if you quarrel with your father. Nothing can be so bad as that.’  ‘We have not quarrelled. That is to say, I have not quarrelled with him. If he quarrels with me, I cannot help it.’  ‘It must be helped,’ said Marie, as she placed before him a mess of eggs which she had cooked for him with her own hands. ‘I would sooner die than see anything wrong between you two.’ Then there was a pause. ‘Is it about me, George?’ she asked boldly.  ‘Father thinks that I love you:—so I do.’  Marie paused for a few minutes before she said anything farther. She was standing very near to George, who was eating his breakfast heartily in spite of the interesting nature of the conversation. As she filled his cup a second time, she spoke again. ‘I will never do anything, George, if I can help it, to displease my uncle.’  ‘But why should it displease him? He wants to have his own way in everything.’  ‘Of course he does.’  ‘He has told me to go;—and I’ll go. I’ve worked for him as no other man would work, and have never said a word about a share in the business;—and never would.’  ‘Is it not all for yourself, George?’  ‘And why shouldn’t you and I be married if we like it?’  ‘I will never like it,’ said she solemnly, ‘if uncle dislikes it.’  ‘Very well,’ said George. ‘There is the horse ready, and now I’m off.’  So he went, starting just as the day was dawning, and no one saw him on that morning except Marie Bromar. As soon as he was gone she went up to her little room, and sat herself down on her bedside. She knew that she loved him, and had been told that she was beloved. She knew that she could not lose him without suffering terribly; but now she almost feared that it would be necessary that she should lose him. His manner had not been tender to her. He had indeed said that he loved her, but there had been nothing of the tenderness of love in his mode of saying so;—and then he had said no word of persistency in the teeth of his father’s objection. She had declared—thoroughly purposing that her declaration should be true—that she would never become his wife in opposition to her uncle’s wishes; but he, had he been in earnest, might have said something of his readiness to attempt at least to overcome his father’s objection. But he had said not a word, and Marie, as she sat upon 

 Prev. P 10/132 next