cambric collars and cuffs, of neckerchiefs and
chemisettes of muslin, which, as they disappeared, seemed like a flock
of white birds knocked about by the tempest.

Angelique began to run.

"Oh dear! What shall I do? You will have to come again and help me. Oh
dear!"

They both rushed forward. She caught a kerchief on the borders of the
Chevrotte. He had already saved two chemisettes which he found in the
midst of some high thistles. One by one the cuffs and the collars were
retaken. But in the course of their running at full speed, the flying
folds of her skirt had at several different times brushed against
him, and each time his face became suddenly red, and his heart beat
violently. In his turn, he touched her face accidentally, as she jumped
to recover the last fichu, which he had carelessly let go of. She was
startled and stood quietly, but breathing more quickly. She joked
no longer; her laugh sounded less clear, and she was not tempted to
ridicule this great awkward, but most attractive fellow. The feminine
nature so recently awakened in her softened her almost to tears, and
with the feeling of inexplicable tenderness, which overpowered her, was
mingled a half-fear.

What was the matter with her that she was less gay, and that she was so
overcome by this delicious pang? When he held out the kerchief to her,
their hands, by chance, touched for a moment. They trembled, as they
looked at each other inquiringly. Then she drew back quickly, and
for several seconds seemed not to know what she should do under the
extraordinary circumstances which had just occurred. At last she
started. Gathering up all the smaller articles of linen in her arms, and
leaving the rest, she turned towards her home.

Felicien then wished to speak . . . "Oh, I beg your pardon. . . . I pray
you to----"

But the wind, which had greatly increased, cut off his words. In despair
he looked at her as she flew along, as if carried away by the blast. She
ran and ran, in and out, among the white sheets and tablecloths, under
the oblique, pale golden rays of the sun. Already the shadow of the
Cathedral seemed to envelop her, and she was on the point of entering
her own garden by the little gate which separated it from the Clos,
without having once glanced behind her. But on the threshold she turned
quickly, as if seized with a kind impulse, not wishing that he should
think she was angry, and confused, but smiling, she called out:

"Thank you. Th