We did not dare to move; when Laura touched my hand gently, and whispered, ‘Hark! there it is again! And at the same instant the voices broke forth, but into a more joyous measure. It was one of those sweet peasant-carollings which breathe of the light heart and the simple life of the cottage. The words came nearer and nearer as we listened, and at length I could trace the refrain which closed each verse-- ‘Puisque l’herbe et la fleur parlent mieux que les mots, Puisque un aveu d’amour s’exhale de la rose, Que le “ne m’oublie pas” de souvenir s’arrose, Que le laurier dit Gloire! et cyprès sanglots.’ At last the wicket of the garden slowly opened, and a little procession of young girls, all dressed in white, with white roses in their hair, and each carrying bouquets in their hands, entered, and with steady step came forward. We watched them attentively, believing that they were celebrating some little devotional pilgrimage, when to our surprise they approached where we sat, and with a low curtsy each dropped her bouquet at Laura’s feet, whispering in a low silver voice as they passed, ‘May thy feet always tread upon flowers!’ Ere we could speak our surprise and admiration of this touching scene--for it was such, in all its simplicity--they were gone, and the last notes of their chant were dying away in the distance. ‘How beautiful! how very beautiful!’ said Laura; ‘I shall never forget this.’ ‘Nor I,’ said I, making a desperate effort at I know not what avowal, which the appearance of the _père_ at once put to flight. He had just seen the boy returning along the river-side with the mule and cart, and came to apprise us that we had better descend. ‘It will be very late indeed before we reach Dinant,’ said Laura; ‘we shall scarcely get there before midnight.’ ‘Oh, you’ll be there much earlier. It is now past six; in less than ten minutes you can be _en route_. I shall not cause you much delay.’ Ah, thought I, the good Father is still dreaming about his album; we must indulge his humour, which, after all, is but a poor requital for all his politeness. As we entered the parlour of the ‘Toison d’Or,’ we found the host in all the bravery of his Sunday suit, with a light-brown wig, and stockings blue as the heaven itself, standing waiting our arrival. The hostess, too, stood at the other side of the door, in the full splendour of a great quilted jupe, and a cap whose ears descended half-way to her waist. On the table, in the middle of the room, were two wax-candles, of that portentous size which we see in chapels. Between them there lay a great open volume, which at a glance I guessed to be the priest’s album. Not comprehending what the worthy host and hostess meant by their presence, I gave a look of interrogation to the _père_, who quickly whispered-- ‘Oh, it is nothing; they are only the witnesses.’