ts pretty white houses half hid among the trees, and
the leaves still so green, though we are in the middle of the month of
October. Do not you think it is wonderful, M. Rodolph, they should so
well preserve their verdure? In Paris, all the leaves wither so soon.
Look! look at those pigeons! how many there are! and how high they fly!
Now they are settling on that old mill. One is never tired in the open
fields of looking at all these amusing sights."

"It, is, indeed, a pleasure to behold the delight you seem to take in
all these trifling matters, Fleur-de-Marie; though they, in reality,
constitute the charm of a landscape."

And Rodolph was right; for the countenance of his companion, while
gazing upon the fair, calm scene before her, was lit up with an
expression of the purest joy.

"See!" she exclaimed, after intently watching the different objects that
unfolded themselves to her eager look, "see how beautifully the clear
white smoke rises from those cottages, and ascends to the very clouds
themselves; and there are some men ploughing the land. What a capital
plough they have got, drawn by those two fine gray horses. Oh, if I were
a man, how I should like to be a husbandman, to go out in the fields,
and drive one's own plough; and then when you look to see the blue
skies, and the green shiny leaves of the neighbouring forests,--such a
day as to-day, for instance, when you feel half inclined to weep,
without knowing why, and begin singing old and melancholy songs, like
'Genevieve de Brabant.' Do you know 'Genevieve de Brabant,' M. Rodolph?"

"No, my child; but I hope you will have the kindness to sing it to me
before the day is over. You know our time is all our own."

At these words, which reminded the poor Goualeuse that her newly tasted
happiness was fast fleeting away, and that, at the close of this, the
brightest day that had ever shone on her existence, she must return to
all the horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all
restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Much
surprised at her emotion, Rodolph kindly inquired its cause.

"What ails you, Fleur-de-Marie? What fresh grief have you found?"

"Nothing,--nothing indeed, M. Rodolph," replied the girl, drying her
eyes and trying to smile. "Pray forgive me for being so sad, and please
not to notice it. I assure you I have nothing at all to grieve
about,--it is only a fancy; and now I am going to be quite gay, you will
see