to walk and run like other children, and dance
like a young lady; so I consented.

"'Will mademoiselle forgive me before I
begin?' he asked with much humility. He
was still kneeling. Our eyes met. My friend,
you would never forget that look if you had
once seen it. You would never forget the
mixture of sorrow and shame and pride which was
to be read in those dark grey eyes, so soft and
yet so penetrating.

"'I forgive you,' I cried, very much frightened;
'but ah! do not hurt me, Monsieur
Pierre.'

"Alas! he could not help hurting me. My
shrieks filled the garden, and when he ceased
and I lay on my couch, still quivering with pain,
he was pale as death, and thick drops of perspiration
stood on his brow. His was a mental
agony, keener by far than that which I endured;
but I was too childish to know that then.

"'Monsieur Pierre is tender hearted,'
sarcastically said Marie.

"He was leaning against the white wall, his
arms were folded, his eyes were downcast. He
raised them and gave her a proud, sorrowful,
reproachful look; but all he answered was,
'I am tender hearted, mademoiselle.'

"Marie tightened her lips, and was mute..
And now he knelt again on the floor by me, for
he had to bind up my foot. He could not avoid
hurting me a little as he did so, but every time
I moaned with pain he looked at me so pitifully
that I could not help forgiving him. I told him
so after my own fashion.

"'I like you all the same, Monsieur Pierre,'
I said.

"He looked at me with an odd sort of wonder,
as if I spoke a language he did not understand;
then he smiled very sweetly.

"'Have you done?' harshly asked Marie.

"He mildly and gravely answered that he
had, and he left the summer-house.

"'Good-bye, Monsieur Pierre,' I cried after
him, but he did not answer me. Marie went
with him. When she came back, I asked why
she had left me again. She shortly replied that
she had let Monsieur Pierre out by the garden
door, for that his way home lay along a lane
that ran at the back of my aunt's mansion. The
business of the day was now over, and I was
carried in to my gloomy room, where I amused
myself as well as I could with a few toys and
Marie's society.

"I thought I had done with Monsieur Pierre;
but when at the end of a week Marie carried
me down to the summer-house, I trembled with
terror. The morning was lovely, the garden was
more beautiful than ever; but the dread of pain
was on me, and conquered every other feeling.
Marie again left me alone, and again came back
with Monsieur Pierre. I screamed when I saw
him, and hid my face in my hands.

"'Oh! you are going to hurt me—to hurt
me,' I cried, 'Oh! do not, Monsieur Pierre.'

"'I shall not hurt you so much this time,'
answered his sad low voice.

"'What need you tell mademoiselle that you
shall hurt her at all?' angrily exclaimed Marie.

"'I cannot lie,' he said gently; 'but I shall
not hurt her very much.'

"I withdrew my hands and looked at him.
The tender pity in his face almost drove away
my fears. He had said that he would not hurt
me very much, and I believed him. He knelt
down by me, and asked humbly if he might
begin. I shook with terror, but I said Yes.
He hurt me more than I had expected—more
than he had expected himself, and I was angry.

"'You are bad, you are cruel,' I sobbed, when
he had done, 'and I hate you.'

"He was still kneeling by me, tying up my
poor wounded foot. I felt his hands tremble,
and I saw his lips quiver.

"'No, I do not hate you,' I cried, remorsefully.
'I like you, Monsieur Pierre.'

"'Hold your tongue,' sharply said Marie.

"This settled the matter. I vowed that I loved
Monsieur Pierre, who was trying to cure me.
Marie was very angry; but Monsieur Pierre,
who was silently tying up my foot, stooped a
little as if to secure the bandage better, and in
so doing touched with his lips the poor limb he
had been torturing. Marie saw and guessed
nothing, and you may be sure I did not tell her
of the liberty my kind doctor had taken. She let
him out again by the garden door, and again he
left without bidding me good-bye. He came
several times; each time he hurt me less than
the last. His attendance upon me always took
place in the summer-house in Marie's presence.
It seemed that he could not enter the house;
for I was once a whole fortnight without seeing
him, on account of the constant rain we had
then. And now, my friend, I come to the point
of my story. That young man loved me. He
loved me—not as I have been loved since those
far days; but with a worship, an adoration, a
fervent respect, no woman has a right to expect,
and which no woman in a thousand, no, nor in
ten thousand, ever receives. Do not tell me
that a young man of his years could not love a
child of mine. Love is not always born of hope.
There is a love so pure that it can live on its
own flame and wish for no more. This is the
love before the fall, if I may venture to call it
so—the love which needs not beauty to call it
forth, which has no visions of wedded bliss,
which is independent of age or time. Yet it is
a love which, spite its perfect innocence, is wholly
distinct from friendship, since it can only be felt
by man for woman, or by woman for man. I
was but a child to others—a pretty one, I believe,
but still a child; but I was womanhood to
Monsieur Pierre—and womanhood in all its
dignity, I have no doubt. Memory has since told
me a story I was then too young to read. I
now understand the language of his reverent
looks, and I can guess the meaning of his silent
admiration. That he was my slave I saw even
then; that I could have made him do anything
I pleased, that he suffered agonies when he was
obliged to hurt me, I also knew. Power
is sweet, and I should have dearly liked to rule
my new subject; but Marie would not allow it.
When I spoke to him, she would not let him
answer me; when I asked him to gather me a