ver, all together, amidst
the delightful roundness and vivacious mobility of her countenance, they
formed an ensemble of strange, surprising beauty. When Miette laughed,
throwing back her head and gently resting it on her right shoulder, she
resembled an old-time Bacchante, her throat distending with sonorous
gaiety, her cheeks round like those of a child, her teeth large and
white, her twists of woolly hair tossed by every outburst of merriment,
and waving like a crown of vine leaves. To realise that she was only a
child of thirteen, one had to notice the innocence underlying her full
womanly laughter, and especially the child-like delicacy of her chin and
soft transparency of her temples. In certain lights Miette's sun-tanned
face showed yellow like amber. A little soft black down already shaded
her upper lip. Toil too was beginning to disfigure her small hands,
which, if left idle, would have become charmingly plump and delicate.

Miette and Silvere long remained silent. They were reading their own
anxious thoughts, and, as they pondered upon the unknown terrors of the
morrow, they tightened their mutual embrace. Their hearts communed with
each other, they understood how useless and cruel would be any verbal
plaint. The girl, however, could at last no longer contain herself,
and, choking with emotion, she gave expression, in one phrase, to their
mutual misgivings.

"You will come back again, won't you?" she whispered, as she hung on
Silvere's neck.

Silvere made no reply, but, half-stifling, and fearing lest he should
give way to tears like herself, he kissed her in brotherly fashion
on the cheek, at a loss for any other consolation. Then disengaging
themselves they again lapsed into silence.

After a moment Miette shuddered. Now that she no longer leant against
Silvere's shoulder she was becoming icy cold. Yet she would not have
shuddered thus had she been in this deserted path the previous evening,
seated on this tombstone, where for several seasons they had tasted so
much happiness.

"I'm very cold," she said, as she pulled her hood over her head.

"Shall we walk about a little?" the young man asked her. "It's not yet
nine o'clock; we can take a stroll along the road."

Miette reflected that for a long time she would probably not have the
pleasure of another meeting--another of those evening chats, the joy of
which served to sustain her all day long.

"Yes, let us walk a little," she eagerly replied. "Let