On that particular Sunday, about four o’clock, Desirée found herself quite alone in the parsonage. As she felt a little bored, she went to gather some food for her rabbits in the churchyard, where there were some magnificent poppies, of which rabbits are extremely fond. Dragging herself about on her knees between the grave-stones, she gathered apronfuls of juicy verdure on which her pets fell greedily. ‘Oh! what lovely plantains!’ she muttered, stooping before Abbé Caffin’s tombstone, and delighted with the discovery she had made. There were, indeed, some magnificent plantains spreading out their broad leaves beside the stone. Desirée had just finished filling her apron with them when she fancied she heard a strange noise behind her. A rustling of branches and a rolling of small pebbles came from the ravine which skirted one side of the graveyard, and at the bottom of which flowed the Mascle, a stream which descended from the high lands of the Paradou. But the ascent here was so rough, so impracticable, that Desirée imagined that the noise could only have been made by some lost dog or straying goat. She stepped quickly to the edge, and, as she looked over, she was amazed to see amidst the brambles a girl who was climbing up the rocks with extraordinary agility. ‘I will give you a hand,’ she said. ‘You might easily break your neck there.’ The girl, directly she saw she was discovered, started back, as though she would rather go down again, but after a moment’s hesitation she ventured to take the hand that was held out to her. ‘Oh! I know who you are,’ said Desirée, with a beaming smile, and letting her apron fall that she might grasp the girl by the waist. ‘You once gave me some blackbirds, but they all died, poor little dears. I was so sorry about it.--Wait a bit, I know your name, I have heard it before. La Teuse often mentions it when Serge isn’t there; but she told me that I was not to repeat it. Wait a moment, I shall remember it directly!’ She tried to recall the name, and grew quite grave in the attempt. Then, having succeeded in remembering it, she became gay again, and seemingly found great pleasure in dwelling upon its musical sound. ‘Albine! Albine!---- What a sweet name it is! At first I used to think you must be a tomtit, because I once had a tomtit with a name very like yours, though I don’t remember exactly what it was.’ Albine did not smile. Her face was very pale, and there was a feverish gleam in her eyes. A few drops of blood trickled from her hands. When she had recovered her breath, she hastily exclaimed: No! no! leave it alone. You will only stain your handkerchief. It is nothing but a scratch. I didn’t want to come by the road, as I should have been seen--so I preferred coming along the bed of the torrent---- Is Serge there?’