"It is a pretty compliment," I said. "And--and I have no gift of
speech to thank you. I am not a match for you except in my love of
kindness and--and of Louison. You have made me happier than I have
been before."
"If I have made you alert, ingenious, determined, I am content,"
was her answer. "I know you have courage."
"And will to use it."
"Good luck and adieu!" said she, with a fine flourish of her whip;
those people had always a pretty politeness of manner.
"Adieu," I said, lifting my hat as I rode off, with a prick of the
spur, for the road was long and I had lost quite half an hour.
My elation gave way to sober thought presently. I began to think
of Louise--that quiet, frank, noble, beautiful, great-hearted girl,
who might be suffering what trouble I knew not, and all silently,
there in her prison home. A sadness grew in me, and then suddenly
I saw the shadow of great trouble. I loved them both; I knew not
which I loved the better. Yet this interview had almost committed
me to Louison.