l poured over rocks with a
cool rushing sound that proved irresistible. The men, their horses
watered and hobbled, went off, shouting like boys, to bathe below the
falls; and after a moment's hesitation Count Hannibal rose from the grass
on which he had flung himself.

"Guard that for me, Madame," he said. And he dropped a packet, bravely
sealed and tied with a silk thread, into the Countess's lap. "'Twill be
safer than leaving it in my clothes. Ohe!" And he turned to Madame St.
Lo. "Would you fancy a life that was all gipsying, cousin?" And if
there was irony in his voice, there was desire in his eyes.

"There is only one happy man in the world," she answered, with
conviction.

"By name?"

"The hermit of Compiegne."

"And in a week you would be wild for a masque!" he said cynically. And
turning on his heel he followed the men.

Madame St. Lo sighed complacently. "Heigho!" she said. "He's right! We
are never content, _ma mie_! When I am trifling in the Gallery my heart
is in the greenwood. And when I have eaten black bread and drank spring
water for a fortnight I do nothing but dream of Zamet's, and white
mulberry tarts! And you are in the same case. You have saved your round
white neck, or it has been saved for you, by not so much as the thickness
of Zamet's pie-crust--I declare my mouth is beginning to water for
it!--and instead of being thankful and making the best of things, you are
thinking of poor Madame d'Yverne, or dreaming of your calf-love!"

The girl's face--for a girl she was, though they called her Madame--began
to work. She struggled a moment with her emotion, and then broke down,
and fell to weeping silently. For two days she had sat in public and not
given way. But the reference to her lover was too much for her strength.

Madame St. Lo looked at her with eyes which were not unkindly.

"Sits the wind in that quarter?" she murmured. "I thought so! But
there, my dear, if you don't put that packet in your gown you'll wash out
the address! Moreover, if you ask me, I don't think the young man is
worth it. It is only that what we have not got--we want!"

But the young Countess had borne to the limit of her powers. With an
incoherent word she rose to her feet, and walked hurriedly away. The
thought of what was and of what might have been, the thought of the lover
who still--though he no longer seemed, even to her, the perfect hero--held
a place in her heart, filled her breast