The Quiver 3/ 1900. Anonymous

      The air was sunny and warm, and sweet with the scent of roses.

      He wondered dreamily what had become of the world——

      She smiled softly at his words.

      A little breeze came and scattered the rose leaves in her lap—the soft, fragrant heap that she had gathered for pot-pourri—and roused the man.

      He stooped to gather them up, but she stayed him.

      "There are plenty more," she said.

      "Yes," he said; "what a lovely old garden it is!"

      He watched the pink deepen in her cheek, and the little dimples come and go as she smiled softly at his words.

      Then he sighed.

      "My arm is better," he said. "I"—doubtfully—"must go to-day."

      "Must you? Will you not stay a little longer? It"—wistfully—"is nice to have a guest."

      He looked up at her with his blue eyes full of love.

      "It is good of you to say so," he said earnestly.

      "Ancelles cannot offer much," she said, with a little stately air, "but it offers you a true welcome, monsieur, and one that will never fail you so long as you will stay with us."

      "I have never," he said slowly, "had such a true welcome before."

      His eyes made her restless.

      She crushed the rose leaves in her hand, and scattered them abroad.

      He picked them up and kept them.

      "Do you never wonder," he said, "how I came to fall into your garden?"

      "We are only glad that monsieur so fell, except for the sprained arm," answered the little mistress of Ancelles.

      "I heard your voice," he said, looking up into her face. "I stood and listened, and then—I wanted to see the owner of the voice, and I climbed to the top of the wall and then—I fell."

      "I thought only schoolboys behaved so," she said, but her pretty lips parted and her eyes smiled, in spite of herself.

      "If I had been a schoolboy I should not have fallen."

      "Why?"

      "Because a schoolboy does not lose his head as I did, mademoiselle."

      "And your footing, monsieur."

      "The one was an outcome of the other."

      She looked away across the sweet, smiling sunshine.

      "Monsieur"—suddenly bending her gaze upon his face—"how came you to lose your head?"

      He glanced at her in swift surprise. He was no chicken-heart, yet something in the proud little face made him hesitate.

      But he was proud, too.

      "Because directly my eyes fell upon you I loved you," he said steadily.

      Stéphanie started to her feet.

      "Monsieur, you outrage my hospitality," she said haughtily.

      He got up and faced her.

      "Never!" he cried. "I did not mean to say it—yet, but——"

      "You insult me, monsieur!"

      "Pardon me, mademoiselle"—his tone was cool as hers now—"but the offer of a man's heart and home can never be an insult!"

      "An honour, perhaps?" mockingly.

      "It is at least his best, mademoiselle."

      "And seemly within a two-days' acquaintanceship, monsieur?"

      Her pride, the haughty little smile curling her pretty lip, maddened him.

      He bent towards her.

      "Seemly or unseemly," he said in low, tense tones, "you shall love me!"

      Her dark eyes flashed.

      "I shall not, monsieur!" she cried, and shut her small teeth closely.

      With a haughty inclination of her pretty head, she left him—left him amongst the roses, in the sunshine, but cold at heart at what he had done.

      He wooed her persistently. He was persistent by nature, and all his life he had never wanted anything as he wanted her. He bore the discomforts of the little inn without a murmur, and every day the roses on the little twisting paths found him among them.

      Mademoiselle was proud and cold; mademoiselle was proud and mocking, proud and wilful, proud and laughing, proud and non-comprehending—every mood in the world, one after another, was mademoiselle, but proud always—proud with them all. And at last he lost heart.

      So there came a day when the scent of the roses sickened him, when the twisting paths maddened him, and he stood before the little mistress of them all, white, stern, beaten.

      "I have come to say good-bye," he said, and the tone of his voice had changed.

      "Good-bye?" she repeated, and she gave him her hand without another word.

      "I would like to thank you for your kindness to me," he said dully; "but—well, perhaps some day you will understand what I feel now. I know you are too good for me. I don't see why you should ever have cared for me; but oh! my little Stéphanie, you are just all the world to me——"

      His voice broke, and he turned away down one of the little sunny paths. But there amongst the roses love came to him at last; for Stéphanie, with a sudden radiance in her face which sent all the pride away, ran after him, and he, seeing the radiance, straightway took her into his arms, and the scent of the roses grew sweet to him again.

      And all the explanation mademoiselle ever saw fit to give of her many unkind moods was—"You were so masterful, monsieur. You hammered out love, love, love, and 'you must,' and 'you shall'—till that day—then you wooed me as I would that I should be wooed."

      And he, remembering the words he had overheard when he stood beneath the garden wall, smiled and thought he understood.

      Not all peace was his wooing even now.

      His little mistress still had her moods, and was tantalisingly chary of her soft words and caresses. Moreover, she possessed a will that had never been thwarted, and she did not understand the words "shall" and "must," never having had them said to her.

      So that, sweet as he found his wooing, at times his brow grew dark; for he too had a strong will, and it irked him to have to make it give way to hers.

      And at last there came a matter in which he would not yield, and so they parted.

      For mademoiselle declared that always must Ancelles be her home.

      "When you are my wife," he said, "you must come with me to my house in town—in London, you know. What a change it will be for you, petite!"

      And then mademoiselle, her eyes kindling, declared that never would she live elsewhere than at Ancelles.

      He was aghast. For to a man, strong of limb and strong of brain, the life that was a dream amongst the roses could not suffice.

      In vain he urged his views upon her. She rebelled against his tone of authority. At last she stood before him with head erect, and eyes that flashed on him from under their long lashes.

      "Choose," she said peremptorily: "London or me."

      "But, child, hear me——"

      "I will not hear you. Pray choose at once."

      "I would have both——"

      With a little scornful laugh she bade him begone.

      "Stéphanie——"