She returned to the cottage of old Babet. On seeing the little chamber she had taken so much pains to ornament with flowers and blossoms, she sank her head upon her bosom. "Poor roses!" she murmured—"little I thought when I gathered you, that my heart would be the first to wither!"

The poor old woman came in to her. "What! crying?" she said— "do people weep at eighteen?"

DaphnÈ threw herself into Babet's arms, and sobbed.

"He has deceived me—left me for his cousin. I must go. You will tell him that he has behaved cruelly, that I am——but no!—tell him that I forgive him."

DaphnÈ loved Hector with all her heart, and with all her soul. There never was an affection so blind, or a girl so innocent. Before leaving Paris, she had had various visions of what might happen in the country—how she might meet some graceful cavalier beside the wall of some romantic castle, who would fling himself on his knees before her, like a hero of romance. And this dream, so cherished in Paris, was nearly realized on the banks of the Lignon. Hector was exactly the sort of youth she had fancied, and the interest became greater from their enacting the parts of shepherdess and shepherd. She had been strengthened in this, her first love, by the former illusions of her imagination; and without one thought of evil, she had lost her common sense, and had followed her lover instead of attending to her mamma. Oh, young damsels, who are fond of pastorals, and can dream of young cavaliers and ancient castles!—who hear, on one side, the soft whisperings of a lover, and on the other, the sensible remarks of your mother!—need I tell you which of the two to choose? If you are still in doubt, read to the end of this story, and you will hesitate no longer.

Hector rejoined his cousin, but during their walk home, neither of them ventured to allude to the incident in the meadow. Hector augured well from the silence of Clotilde—he hoped she would not speak of his secret at the chateau. Vain hope! the moment she found an opportunity, it all came out! That evening, M. de Langevy saw her more pensive than usual, and asked her the cause.

"Oh, nothing," she said, and sighed.

The uncle persisted in trying to find it out.

"What is the matter, my dear Clotilde?" he said. "Has your pilgrimage to the banks of the Lignon disappointed you?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Has my son—-but where is Hector?"

"He has gone on the pilgrimage again."

"What the devil is he doing there?" "He has his reasons, of course," said Clotilde.

"Indeed!—Do you know what they are?" enquired the father.

"Not the least in the world—only—"

"Only what? I hate these only's—out with it all!"

"My dear uncle, I've told you I know nothing about it—only I have seen his shepherdess."

"His shepherdess? You're laughing, Clotilde. Do you believe in shepherdesses at this time of day?"

"Yes, uncle—for I tell you I saw his shepherdess fall down in a faint on the side of the Lignon."

"The deuce you did? A shepherdess!—Hector in love with a shepherdess!"

"Yes, uncle; but a very pretty one, I assure you, in silk petticoat and corset of white satin."

The father was petrified. "What is the meaning of all this? It must be a very curious story. Bring me my fowling-piece and game-bag. Do you think, my dear Clotilde, that infernal boy has returned to his shepherdess?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Well—has the shepherdess any sheep?"

"No, uncle."

"The devil! that looks more serious. You went past the withy bed?"

"Yes, uncle; but I fancy the gentle shepherdess is nearer the village."

"Very good," grumbled the old Baron, with a tone of voice that made it difficult to believe he saw much good in it. "Silk petticoats and satin corsets! I wonder where the rascal finds money for such fineries for his shepherdess."

He went straight on to the Cottage of the Vines, in hopes that Babet would know something of Hector's proceedings. He found the old woman in her porch, resting from the labours of the day.

"How do you do, Babet?" said the old Baron, softening his voice like any sucking dove. "Anything new going on?"

"Nothing new, your honour," replied Babet, attempting to rise.

"Sit still," said the Baron, putting his hand kindly on the old lady's shoulder; "here's a seat for me on this basket of rushes." At this moment M. de Langevy heard the upstairs casement closed. "Oho!" he thought, "I've hit upon it at once—this is the cage where these turtles bill and coo. Have you seen my son this week, Babet?" he said aloud.

"Oh, I see him often, your honour; he often comes sporting into my paddock."

"Sporting in your preserves, Babet—a pretty sort of game."

"Oh, very good game, your honour; this very day he sent me a beautiful hare. I did not know what to do with it; but at last I put it on the spit."

"The hare wasn't all for you, perhaps. But, listen to me, Babet—I know the whole business—my son is in love with some shepherdess or other—and I don't think she is far from here."

"I don't understand you, sir," said the old lady—a true confidante, though seventy years of age.

"You understand me so perfectly," said the Baron, "that you are evidently ashamed of your behaviour. But do not be uneasy, there is no great harm in it—a mere childish frolic—only tell me where the girl is?"

"Ah, your honour," cried Babet, who saw there was no use for further pretence—"she's an angel—she is—a perfect angel!"

"Where does the angel come from, Babet?" enquired the Baron, "she has not come fresh from heaven, has she?"

"I know nothing more about her, your honour; but I pray morning and night that you may have no one else for a daughter."

"We shall see—the two lovers are above, are not they?"

"Why should I conceal it? Yes, your honour, you may go up stairs at once. An innocent love like theirs never bolts the door."

When the Baron was half-way up the stair, he stopped short, on seeing the two lovers sitting close to each other, the one weeping, and the other trying to console her. There was such an air of infantine candour about them both, and both seemed so miserable, that the hard heart of sixty-three was nearly touched.

"Very well!"—he said, and walked into the room. DaphnÈ uttered a scream of terror, and her tears redoubled.

"There is nothing to cry about," said M. de Langevy; "but as for you, young man, you must let me into the secret, if you please."

"I have nothing to tell you," said Hector, in a determined tone.

DaphnÈ, who had leant for support on his shoulder, fell senseless on her chair.

"Father," said Hector, bending over her, "you perceive that this is no place for you."

"Nor for you, either," said the old man in a rage. "What do you mean by such folly? Go home this instant, sir, or you shall never enter my door again."

But Hector made no reply. His whole attention was bestowed on DaphnÈ.

"I ask you again, sir," said the father, still more angry at his son's neglect. "Think well on what you do."

"I have thought, sir," replied Hector, raising the head of the still senseless DaphnÈ. "You may shut your door for ever."

"None of your impudence, jackanapes. Will you come home with me now, or stay here?"

"If I go with you, sir," said Hector, "it will be to show my respect to you as my father, but I must tell you that I love Mademoiselle Deshoulieres, and no one else. We are engaged, and only death shall part us."

"Deshoulieres—Deshoulieres," said the Baron, "I've heard that name before. I knew a Colonel Deshoulieres in the campaigns of Flanders; a gallant fellow, with a beautiful wife, a number of wounds, many medals, but not a sou. Are you coming, sir?"

DaphnÈ motioned him to go, and Hector followed his father in silence. He was not without hopes of gaining his permission to love his poor DaphnÈ as much as he chose. M. de Langevy bowed to her as he went out of the room; and wishing Babet a good appetite as he passed the kitchen door, commenced a sermon for the edification of poor Hector, which lasted all the way. The only attention Hector paid to it was to turn round at every pause, and take a look at the little casement window.

When DaphnÈ saw him disappear among the woods at the side of the road, she sighed; and while the tears rolled down her cheek, she said, "Adieu, adieu! I shall never see him more!"

She looked sadly round the little apartment—now so desolate; she gathered one of the roses that clustered round the window, and scattered the leaves one by one, and watched them as they were wafted away by the breeze.

"Even so will I do with my love," said the poetical shepherdess;
"I will scatter it on the winds of death."

"Adieu," she said, embracing poor old Babet; "I am going back to the place I left so sillily. If you see Hector again, tell him I loved him; but that he must forget me, as I forget the world, and myself."

As she said these words, she grew pale and staggered, but she recovered by an effort, and walked away on the path that led to the Chateau d'Urtis. When she came to the meadow, she saw at her feet the crook she had broken in the morning. She lifted it, and took it with her as the only memorial of Hector. The sun was sinking slowly, and DaphnÈ knelt down and said a prayer, pressing the crook to her bosom—poor DaphnÈ!