only by women and children, there was nothing to cross and thwart him. He had his own way, and a pleasant way it was.

The meal over, the party were free to run and play in the meadows. A few stayed to help the farmer’s wife to put away her earthenware. M. Paul called me from among these to come out and sit near him under a tree—whence he could view the troop gambolling over a wide pasture—and read to him whilst he took his cigar. He sat on a rustic bench, and I at the tree-root. While I read (a pocket-classic—a Corneille; I did not like it, but he did, finding therein beauties I never could be brought to perceive), he listened with a sweetness of calm the more impressive from the impetuosity of his general nature. The deepest happiness filled his blue eye and smoothed his broad forehead. I, too, was happy—happy with the bright day, happier with his presence, happiest with his kindness.

He asked, by-and-by, if I would not rather run to my companions than sit there? I said no. I felt content to be where he was. He asked whether, if I were his sister, I should always be content to stay with a brother such as he. I said I believed I should, and I felt it. Again he inquired whether, if he were to leave Villette and go far away, I should be sorry; and I dropped Corneille, and made no reply.

“Petite sœur,” said he, “how long could you remember me if we were separated?”

“That, monsieur, I can never tell, because I do not know how long it will be before I shall cease to remember everything earthly.”

“If I were to go beyond seas for two—three—five years, should you welcome me on my return?”

“Monsieur, how could I live in the interval?”

“Pourtant j’ai été pour vous bien dur, bien exigeant.”

I hid my face with the book, for it was covered with tears. I asked him why he talked so; and he said he would talk so no more, and cheered me again with the kindest encouragement. Still, the gentleness with which he treated me during the rest of the day went somehow to my heart. It was too tender. It was mournful. I would rather he had been abrupt, whimsical, and irate, as was his wont.

When hot noon arrived—for the day turned out as we had anticipated, glowing as June—our shepherd collected his sheep from the pasture, and proceeded to lead us all softly home. But we had a whole league to walk—thus far from Villette was the farm where we had breakfasted. The children especially were tired with their play. The spirits of most flagged at the prospect of this mid-day walk over chaussées flinty, glaring, and dusty. This state of things had been foreseen and provided for. Just beyond the boundary of the farm we met two spacious vehicles coming to fetch us—such conveyances as are hired out purposely for the accommodation of school parties. Here, with good management, room was found for all, and in another hour M. Paul made safe consignment of his charge at the Rue Fossette. It had been a pleasant day. It would have been perfect, but for the breathing of melancholy which had dimmed its sunshine a moment.

That tarnish was renewed the same evening.

Just about sunset I saw M. Emanuel come out of the front door, accompanied by Madame Beck. They paced the centre alley for nearly an hour, talking earnestly—he looking grave, yet restless; she wearing an amazed, expostulatory, dissuasive air.

I wondered what was under discussion; and when Madame Beck re-entered the house as it darkened, leaving her kinsman Paul yet lingering in the garden, I said to myself,—

“He called me ‘petite sœur’ this morning. If he were really my brother, how I should like to go to him just now, and ask what it is that presses on his mind. See how he leans against that tree, with his arms