A low
word came to Philip's lips, and then he laughed softly. It was a
laugh, almost under his breath, which sweeps up now and then from
a soul in a joy--an emotion--which is unutterable in words. But to
Jeanne it was different. Her dark eyes grew hurt and wounded, two
great tears ran down her paling cheeks, and suddenly she buried
her face in her hands and with a sobbing cry turned from him, with
her head bowed under the smiling face above.
"And you--you hate it, too!" she sobbed. "They all hate it--
Pierre--father--all--all hate it. It must--it must be bad. They
hate her--every one--but me. And--I love her so!"
Her slender form shook with sobs. For a moment Philip stood like
one struck dumb. Then he sprang to her and caught her close in his
arms.
"Jeanne--Jeanne--listen," he cried. "To-night I looked at that
picture before I went to see your father, and I loved it because
it is like you. Jeanne, my darling, I love you--I love you--"
She was panting against his breast. He covered her face with
kisses. Her sweet lips were not turned from him, and there filled
her eyes a sudden light that made him almost sob in his happiness.
"I love you, I love you," he repeated, again and again, and he
could find no other words than those.
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