out it, except at her prayers, and then
she used to ask the saints to pray for her that she might have a
husband.

Now, in a village about half a day's journey from the town where Marie
dwelt, there lived a young girl whose name was Celeste. Her mother had
named her thus because her eyes were blue as the sky above, and her face
was round as the round moon, and her hair and eyelashes were like
sunbeams, or like moonlight when it shines in yellow halo through the
curly edges of summer clouds. The good people of this village were a
hard-working, hard-headed set of men and women. While Celeste's father
lived they had waxed proud about her beauty, for undoubtedly she was a
credit to the place; but when her parents died, and left her needy, they
said she must go to the town and earn her living.

Celeste laughed in her sleeve when they told her this, because young
Fernand, the son of the inn-keeper, had been wooing and winning her
heart, in a quiet way, for many a day; and now she believed in him, and
felt sure that he would speak his love aloud and take her home to his
parents. To be sure, it was unknown in that country for a man who had
money to marry a girl who had none; but Fernand was strong to work and
to plan; Celeste knew that he could do what he liked.

It was the time when the April sun smiles upon the meadow grass till it
is very green and long enough to wave in the wind, and all amongst it
the blue scilla flowers are like dewdrops reflecting the blue that hangs
above the gnarled arms of the still leafless walnut trees. The cottage
where Celeste lived was out from the village, among the meadows, and to
the most hidden side of it young Fernand came on the eve of the day on
which she must leave it for ever. Very far off the snow mountains had
taken on their second flush of evening red before he came, and Celeste
had grown weary waiting.

'Good-bye,' said Fernand. He was always a somewhat stiff and formal
young man, and to-night he was ill at ease.

'But,' cried Celeste--and here she wept--'you have made me love you. I
love no one in the world but you.'

'You are foolish,' said he. 'It is, of course, a pity that we must part,
but it cannot be helped. You have no dowry, not even a small one. It
would be unthrifty for the son of an innkeeper to marry a girl without a
sou. My parents would not allow me to act so madly!' and his manner
added--'nor would I be so foolish myself.'

Next day Celeste went up to the town