Pierre had become to her as one of the disembodied saints or angels
whose pictures looked down from the wall of the Convent chapel--the
bright angel of the Annunciation or the youthful Baptist proclaiming
the way of the Lord. Now that Pierre Philibert was alive in the
flesh,--a man, beautiful, brave, honorable, and worthy of any
woman's love,--Amelie was frightened. She had not looked for that,
and yet it had come upon her. And, although trembling, she was glad
and proud to find she had been remembered by the brave youth, who
recognized in the perfect woman the girl he had so ardently loved as
a boy.
Did he love her still? Woman's heart is quicker to apprehend all
possibilities than man's. She had caught a look once or twice in
the eyes of Pierre Philibert which thrilled the inmost fibres of her
being; she had detected his ardent admiration. Was she offended?
Far from it! And although her cheek had flushed deeply red, and her
pulses throbbed hard at the sudden consciousness that Pierre
Philibert admired, nay, more,--she could not conceal it from
herself,--she knew that night that he loved her! She would not have
foregone that moment of revelation for all that the world had to
offer.
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