was on the point of
climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his streaming eyes.

Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She held in her
hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was scanning the unwritten
pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, large and wistful, were holding
communion with the god of dreams. A wisp of hair, glossy as coal,
trembled against a cheek white as the gown she wore.

At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a bulldog,
toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in a zig-zag
course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his head as if he,
too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him. All at once he sniffed,
his ears stood forward, and a low growl broke the enchantment. The
girl, on discovering Maurice, closed the book and rose. The dog, still
growling, jumped down and trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that it
was time to speak.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has met
with an accident."

The girl came to the gate. "Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you are
wet!"

"That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock together.
"I was forced to swim. If you will kindly open the gate and guide me to
the street, I shall be much obliged to you."

The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, or the
next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.

"Thank you," he said.

"O! And you might have been drowned," compassion lighting her beautiful
eyes. "Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak. And it was
that sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have it
removed. Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is in
distress."

Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire to
gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this girl who could say
"must" to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showed
no sign of embarrassment. Indeed, she impressed him as one who was
superior to that petty disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it
seemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too,
should be standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when
he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. Against
the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals. Innocent,
inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the
glory of the world, asleep.