This determined Hélène. The youth which dwelt within her, in spite of the cold demureness of her great beauty, displayed itself in a charming, ingenuous fashion. She became a thorough school-girl, unaffected and gay. There was no prudishness about her. She laughingly declared that she must not expose her legs, and asked for some cord to tie her skirts securely round her ankles. That done, she stood upright on the swing, her arms extended and clinging to the ropes. “Now, push, Monsieur Rambaud,” she exclaimed delightedly. “But gently at first!” Monsieur Rambaud had hung his hat on the branch of a tree. His broad, kindly face beamed with a fatherly smile. First he tested the strength of the ropes, and, giving a look at the trees, determined to give a slight push. That day Hélène had for the first time abandoned her widow’s weeds; she was wearing a grey dress set off with mauve bows. Standing upright, she began to swing, almost touching the ground, and as if rocking herself to sleep. “Quicker! quicker!” she exclaimed. Monsieur Rambaud, with his hands ready, caught the seat as it came back to him, and gave it a more vigorous push. Hélène went higher, each ascent taking her farther. However, despite the motion, she did not lose her sedateness; she retained almost an austre demeanor; her eyes shone very brightly in her beautiful, impassive face; her nostrils only were inflated, as though to drink in the air. Not a fold of her skirts was out of place, but a plait of her hair slipped down. “Quicker! quicker!” she called. An energetic push gave her increased impetus. Up in the sunshine she flew, even higher and higher. A breeze sprung up with her motion, and blew through the garden; her flight was so swift that they could scarcely distinguish her figure aright. Her face was now all smiles, and flushed with a rosy red, while her eyes sparkled here, then there, like shooting stars. The loosened plait of hair rustled against her neck. Despite the cords which bound them, her skirts now waved about, and you could divine that she was at her ease, her bosom heaving in its free enjoyment as though the air were indeed her natural place. “Quicker! quicker!” Monsieur Rambaud, his face red and bedewed with perspiration, exerted all his strength. A cry rang out. Hélène went still higher. “Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma!” repeated Jeanne in her ecstasy. She was sitting on the lawn gazing at her mother, her little hands clasped on her bosom, looking as though she herself had drunk in all the air that was stirring. Her breath failed her; with a rythmical movement of the shoulders she kept time with the long strokes of the swing. And she cried, “Quicker! quicker!” while her mother still went higher, her feet grazing the lofty branches of the trees. “Higher, mamma! oh, higher, mamma!”