tened the spirits of the two young
travellers, who sat on the rough seat with their feet in the straw, and
holding on with both hands to the side of the wagon. One of the farmer's
daughters drove a young ass, who, harassed by the wasps, which are
very numerous at the time when the air is full of the aroma of ripening
fruits, impatiently shook his long ears.

They went on and on until they reached a hill-side, where they saw a
crowd at work. Jack and Cecile each snatched a wicker basket and joined
the others. What a pretty sight it was! The rustic landscape seen
between the vine-draped arches, the narrow stream, winding and
picturesque, full of green islands, a little cascade and its white foam,
and above all, the fog showing through a golden mist, and a fresh breeze
that suggested long evenings and bright fires.

This charming day was very short, at least so Jack found it. He did not
leave Cecile's side for a minute. She wore a broad-brimmed hat and a
skirt of flowered cambric. He filled her basket with the finest of the
grapes, exquisite in their purple bloom, delicate as the dust on the
wings of a butterfly. They examined the fruit together; and when Jack
raised his eyes, he admired on the cheeks of the young girl the same
faint, powdery bloom. Her hair, blown in the wind in a soft halo above
her brow, added to this effect. He had never seen a face so changed and
brightened as hers. Exercise and the excitement of her pretty toil,
the gayety of the vineyard, the laughs and shouts of the laborers, had
absolutely transformed M. Rivals' quiet housekeeper. She became a child
once more, ran down the slopes, lifted her basket on her shoulder,
watched her burden carefully, and walked with that rhythmical step which
Jack remembered to have seen in the Breton women as they bore on their
heads their full water-jugs. There came a time in the day when these two
young persons, overwhelmed by fatigue, took their seats at the entrance
of a little grove where the dry leaves rustled under their feet.

And then? Ah, well, they said nothing. They let the night descend softly
on the most beautiful dream of their lives; and when the swift autumnal
twilight brought out in the darkness the bright windows of the simple
homes scattered about, the wind freshened, and Cecile insisted on
fastening around Jack's throat the scarf she had brought, the warmth and
softness of the fabric, the consciousness of being cared for, was like a
caress to the