"Yea, yes, do write us everything."
"And bygones are really and truly bygones?" he insisted, as he heard the others coming.
"They are already forgotten," I said, a little solemnly.
It was a wonderful summer's morning on which Paul and George started.
Marcelle and I felt when they had gone, that the weather and the circumstances justified dawdling under the elms at the bottom of the garden.
"There is a sense of freedom in having parted with them," she said, while a tear still lingered on her eyelashes." Too much happiness is like too much sweet cake, I feel as if I wanted to swim in a rough sea or climb some rocks. What a comfort that Paul has such a friend ! I used to fear his being dropped into something — the sea, or a river, or a boiler, but le cher George wouldn't allow it Ah, Lisa, it is sweet to think of us all four together! I love to see Paul looking at you. I am not jealous when his eyes seem to talk to you and to say, 'Du bist meine Ruh,' as they do sometimes. I always thought I should be horribly, cruelly jealous of Paul's wife," she clenched her hand tightly as she spoke, "but I love you too much to mind. Besides, I am far too happy myself."
I could not answer her. I thought her candour had failed her for the first time. Could she have been happy had she not been secure of being first with Paul?
A small boy was passing down the road, and he was visible to us through the garden gate, holding a letter in his hand.
"It's old Mrs. Monk's grandson," said Marcelle. "Tom, Tom," she called in her shrill tones, and she went to meet the boy.
It was a note from the doctor to the effect that the poor old woman could not live through the day, and that her mind was greatly troubled as to how she was to get a priest, as
