ded her into the coach and then sat
down beside her to separate her from the young viscount.

"I have some bills to give you," said the doctor to the young man. "I
have brought all your papers and documents."

"I came very near not getting off," said Savinien, "for I had to order
linen and clothes; the Philistines took all; I return like a true
prodigal."

However interesting were the subjects of conversation between the young
man and the old one, and however witty and clever were certain remarks
of the viscount, the young girl continued silent till after dusk, her
green veil lowered, and her hands crossed on her shawl.

"Mademoiselle does not seem to have enjoyed Paris very much," said
Savinien at last, somewhat piqued.

"I am glad to return to Nemours," she answered in a trembling voice
raising her veil.

Notwithstanding the dim light Savinien then recognized her by the heavy
braids of her hair and the brilliancy of her blue eyes.

"I, too, leave Paris to bury myself in Nemours without regret now that I
meet my charming neighbour again," he said; "I hope, Monsieur le docteur
that you will receive me in your house; I love music, and I remember to
have listened to Mademoiselle Ursula's piano."

"I do not know," replied the doctor gravely, "whether your mother would
approve of your visits to an old man whose duty it is to care for this
dear child with all the solicitude of a mother."

This reserved answer made Savinien reflect, and he then remembered the
kisses so thoughtlessly wafted. Night came; the heat was great. Savinien
and the doctor went to sleep first. Ursula, whose head was full
of projects, did not succumb till midnight. She had taken off her
straw-bonnet, and her head, covered with a little embroidered cap,
dropped upon her uncle's shoulder. When they reached Bouron at dawn,
Savinien awoke. He then saw Ursula in the slight disarray naturally
caused by the jolting of the vehicle; her cap was rumpled and half off;
the hair, unbound, had fallen each side of her face, which glowed from
the heat of the night; in this situation, dreadful for women to whom
dress is a necessary auxiliary, youth and beauty triumphed. The sleep
of innocence is always lovely. The half-opened lips showed the pretty
teeth; the shawl, unfastened, gave to view, beneath the folds of her
muslin gown and without offence to her modesty, the gracefulness of
her figure. The purity of the virgin spirit shone on the sleeping
countenance