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 as I was, tears are generally convulsions; mine were like the pangs of death.

"Come, now! Just tell me what is wrong," cried Edmée, with some of the bluntness of sisterly affection.

And she ventured to put her hand on my shoulder. She was looking at me with an expression of wistfulness, and a big tear was trickling down her cheek. I threw myself on my knees and tried to speak, but that was still impossible. I could do no more than mutter the word to-morrow several times.

To-morrow?' What of to-morrow?" said Edmée. "Do you not like being here? Do you want to go away?"

"I will go, if it will please you," I replied. "Tell me; do you wish never to see me again?"

"I do not wish that at all," she rejoined. "You will stop here, won't you?"

"It is for you to decide," I answered.

She looked at me in astonishment. I was still on my knees. She leant over the back of my chair.

"Yes; I am quite sure that you are good at heart," she said, as if she were answering some inner objection. "A Mauprat can be nothing by halves; and as soon as you have once known a good quarter of an hour, it is certain you ought to have a noble life before you."

"I will make it so," I answered.

"You mean it?" she said with unaffected joy.

"On my honour, Edmée, and on yours. Dare you give me your hand?"

"Certainly," she said.

She held out her hand to me; but she was still trembling.