Paul came in and crossed the hall with the light step of a lover.
"Paul," said Margaret, "Father Herbert knows."
"Father Herbert knows!" repeated the priest,—"Father Herbert knows everything. You're very innocent for lovers."
"You're very wise, sir, for a priest," said Paul, blushing.
"I knew it a week ago," said the old man, gravely.
"Well, sir," said Paul, "we love you none the less for loving each other so much more. I hope you'll not love us the less."
"Father Herbert thinks it's 'terrible,'" said Margaret, smiling.
"O Lord!" cried Herbert, raising his hand to his head as if in pain. He turned about, and went into his room.
Paul drew Margaret's hand through his arm and followed the priest. "You suffer, sir," he said, "at the thought of losing us,—of our leaving you. That certainly needn't trouble you. Where should we go? As long as you live, as long as my mother lives, we shall all make but a single household."
The old man appeared to have recovered his composure. "Ah!" he said; "be happy, no matter where, and I shall be happy. You're very young."
"Not so young," said Paul, laughing, but with a natural disinclination to be placed in too boyish a light. "I'm six-and-twenty. J'ai vécu,—I've lived.":
"He's been through everything," said Margaret, leaning on his arm.
"Not quite everything." And Paul, bending his eyes, with a sober smile, met her upward glance.
"Oh, he's modest," murmured Father Herbert.
"Paul's been all but married already," said Margaret.
The young man made a gesture of impatience. Herbert stood with his eyes fixed on his face.
"Why do you speak of that poor girl?" said Paul. Whatever satisfaction he may have given Margaret on the subject of his projected marriage in Europe, he had since his return declined, on the plea that it was extremely painful,
