andscape.
But the sad-hued coat belied that morning a heart that sang within his
breast as joyously as any linnet of the woods through which he strayed.
That he was garbed in black was but the outward indication of his
clerkly office, for he was secretary to the most noble the Marquis de
Fresnoy de Bellecour, and so clothed in the livery of the ink by which
he lived. His face was pale and lean and thoughtful, but within his
great, intelligent eyes there shone a light of new-born happiness. Under
his arm he carried a volume of the new philosophies which Rousseau had
lately given to the world, and which was contributing so vastly to the
mighty change that was impending. But within his soul there dwelt
in that hour no such musty subject as the metaphysical dreams of old
Rousseau. His mood inclined little to the "Discourses upon the Origin of
Inequality" which his elbow hugged to his side. Rather was it a mood of
song and joy and things of light, and his mind was running on a string
of rhymes which mentally he offered up to his divinity. A high-born
lady was she, daughter to his lordly employer, the most noble Marquis
of Bellecour. And he a secretary, a clerk! Aye, but a clerk with a great
soul, a secretary with a great belief in the things to come, which in
that musty tome beneath his arm were dimly prophesied.

And as he roamed beside the brook, his feet treading the elastic,
velvety turf, and crushing heedlessly late primrose and stray violet,
his blood quickened by the soft spring breeze, fragrant with hawthorn
and the smell of the moist brown earth, La Boulaye's happiness gathered
strength from the joy that on that day of spring seemed to invest all
Nature. An old-world song stole from his firm lips-at first timidly,
like a thing abashed in new surroundings, then in bolder tones that
echoed faintly through the trees

"Si le roi m'avait donne
Paris, sa grande ville,
Et qui'il me fallut quitter
L'amour de ma mie,
Je dirais au roi Louis
Reprenez votre Paris.
J'aime mieux ma mie, O gai!
J'aime mieux ma mie!"

How mercurial a thing is a lover's heart! Here was one whose habits were
of solemnity and gloomy thought turned, so joyous that he could sing
aloud, alone in the midst of sunny Nature, for no better reason than
that Suzanne de Bellecour had yesternight smiled as--for some two
minutes by the clock--she had stood speaking with him.

"Presumptuous that I am," said he to the rivulet, to cont