stunted vines. On that December night, under the clear
cold moonlight, the newly-ploughed fields stretching away on either hand
resembled vast beds of greyish wadding which deadened every sound in the
atmosphere. The dull murmur of the Viorne in the distance alone sent a
quivering thrill through the profound silence of the country-side.

When the young people had begun to descend the avenue, Miette's thoughts
reverted to the Jas-Meiffren which they had just left behind them.

"I had great difficulty in getting away this evening," she said. "My
uncle wouldn't let me go. He had shut himself up in a cellar, where he
was hiding his money, I think, for he seemed greatly frightened this
morning at the events that are taking place."

Silvere clasped her yet more lovingly. "Be brave!" said he. "The time
will come when we shall be able to see each other freely the whole day
long. You must not fret."

"Oh," replied the girl, shaking her head, "you are very hopeful. For my
part I sometimes feel very sad. It isn't the hard work which grieves me;
on the contrary, I am often very glad of my uncle's severity, and the
tasks he sets me. He was quite right to make me a peasant girl; I should
perhaps have turned out badly, for, do you know, Silvere, there are
moments when I fancy myself under a curse. . . . I feel, then, that I
should like to be dead. . . . I think of you know whom."

As she spoke these last words, her voice broke into a sob. Silvere
interrupted her somewhat harshly. "Be quiet," he said. "You promised not
to think about it. It's no crime of yours. . . . We love each other very
much, don't we?" he added in a gentler tone. "When we're married you'll
have no more unpleasant hours."

"I know," murmured Miette. "You are so kind, you sustain me. But what am
I to do? I sometimes have fears and feelings of revolt. I think at times
that I have been wronged, and then I should like to do something wicked.
You see I pour forth my heart to you. Whenever my father's name is
thrown in my face, I feel my whole body burning. When the urchins cry
at me as I pass, 'Eh, La Chantegreil,' I lose all control of myself, and
feel that I should like to lay hold of them and whip them."

After a savage pause she resumed: "As for you, you're a man; you're
going to fight; you're very lucky."

Silvere had let her speak on. After a few steps he observed sorrowfully:
"You are wrong, Miette; yours is bad anger. You shouldn't rebel against
justice