spray, or a
violet from the bank, it was tendered with a smile to one whose _hand_
at least was less careless than Adrienne's; and for her heart, that
mattered not (farther than in brotherly kindness) to the _reputed_
possessor of la belle St Hilaire's. Yet, in long after days, when silver
threads began to streak the soft fair hair of Madelaine du Resnel,
and the thick black clustering curls of Walter Barnard were more than
sprinkled with the same paly hue, he found in turning over the leaves
of an old French romance, in which her name was inscribed, the dried,
faded, scentless forms of what had been a few sweet wild-flowers. On the
margin of the page, to which time had glued them, was a date, and a few
written words. And the sight of those frail memorials, associated with
those age-tinted characters, must have awakened tender and touching
recollections in his heart who gazed upon them; for a watery film
suffused his eyes as he raised them from the volume, and turned with a
half-pensive smile to one who sat beside him, quietly busied with her
knitting needles in providing for his winter comfort.

"Mais revenons a nos moutons." Our present business is with the young
lover and his fair mistress, and the still younger Madelaine. Time will
overtake them soon enough. We need not anticipate his work. The old
inexorable brought to a conclusion Walter's leave of absence, just as
certain discoveries to which we have alluded were beginning to break
upon him; just as la belle Adrienne began to weary of playing at
_parfait amour_, enacting the adorable to her lover, and the _aimable_
to her cousin _in his presence_; just as Monsieur and Madame, her weak
but worthy parents, were secretly praying for their future son-in-law's
departure, in the forlorn hope (as they had stipulated that even _les
fiancailles_ should not take place for a twelve-month to come) that some
unexpected page might yet turn over in the chapter of accidents, whereon
might be written the name of Jules Marquis d'Arval, instead of that of
the landless, untitled Walter Barnard, for the husband of their
beautiful heiress.

Just at this critical juncture arrived the day of separation--of
separation for a year certain! Will it be doubted that with the parting
hour, rushed back upon Walter's heart a flood of tenderness, even more
impassioned than that with which it had first pledged itself to the
beautiful Adrienne? The enthusiasm of his nature, acting as a stimulus
t