ople are
so fond of monopolies--and besides, she might be discovered. 'Twould
be better, then, _not_ to read it--a much simpler proceeding; for
couldn't she nearly guess what was in it? And what did she care what
was in it? Not to read it was evidently the safer mode; and
accordingly she--read it through and through, and blushed and smiled,
and read it through and through again. It was none of your
commonplace prosaic epistles--'twas all poetry, all fire; her mamma
would have been enchanted if the verses had only been addressed to
her. Here they are:--

"My sweetest hour, my happiest day,
Was in the happy month of May!
The happy dreams that round me lay
On that delicious morn of May!"

"I saw thee! loved thee! If my love
A tribute unrejected be,
The happiest day of May shall prove
The happiest of my life to me!"

It is quite evident that if such an open declaration had been made
in plain prose, Daphne would have been angry; but in verse, 'twas
nothing but a poetical license. Instead, therefore, of tearing it in
pieces, and throwing it into the water, she folded it carefully
up, and placed it in the pretty corset of white satin, which seems
the natural escritoire of a shepherdess in her teens. Scarcely had
she closed the drawer, and double locked it, when she saw at her
side--Hector and Madame Deshoulieres.

"My poor child," said the poetess, "how thoughtful you seem on
Lignon's flowery side--forgetful of your sheep--"

'That o'er the meadows negligently stray!'

Monsieur de Langevy, as you have given her a crook, methinks you
ought to aid her in her duties in watching the flock. As for myself,
I must be off to finish a letter to my bishop.

'From Lignon's famous banks
What can I find to say?
The breezes freshly springing,
Make me--and nature--gay.
When Celadon would weep;
His lost Astrea fair,
To Lignon he would creep,
But oh! this joyous air
Would force to skip and leap
A dragon in despair!'--&c. &c.

Madame Deshoulieres had no prudish notions, you will perceive, about
a flirtation--provided it was carried on with the airs and graces of
the Hotel Rambouillet. She merely, therefore, interposed a word here
and there, to show that she was present. Daphne, who scarcely said a
word to Hector, took good care to answer every time her mamma spoke
to her. To be sure, it detracts a little from this filial merit,
that she did not know what she said. But if all