Blue dragon flies drifted on glimmering wings; she put them into her song; the meadow was gay with butterflies’ painted wings; she sang about them, too. Cloud and azure sky, tree tops and clover, the tiny rivulet dancing through deep grasses, the wind furrowing the fields, all these she put into her _chansonnette de laveuse_. And always in the clear glass of the stream she seemed to see the smiling face of her friend, Djack--her lover who had opened her eyes of a child to all things beautiful in the world. Once or twice, from very far away, she fancied she heard the distant singing of the negro muleteers sunning themselves down by the corral. She heard, at quarter-hour intervals, her bells melodiously recording time as it sped by; then there were intervals of that sweet stillness which is but a composite harmony of summer--the murmur of insects, the whisper of leaves and water, capricious seconds of intense silence, then the hushed voice of life exquisitely audible again. War, wickedness, the rage and cruelty of the Beast--all the vile and filthy ferocity of the ferocious Swine of the North became to her as unreal as a tragic legend half-forgotten. And death seemed very far away. ------------------ Her washing was done; the wet clothing piled in her basket. Perspiration powdered her forehead and delicate little nose. Hot, flushed, breathing deeply and irregularly from her efforts under a vertical sun, she stood erect, loosening the blouse over her bosom to the breeze and pushing back the clustering masses of hair above her brow. The water laughed up at her, invitingly; the last floating castle of white foam swept past her feet down stream. On the impulse of the moment she unlaced her blue wool skirt, dropped it around her feet, stepped from it; unbuckled both garters, stripped slippers and stockings from her feet, and waded out into the pool. The fresh, delicious coolness of the water thrilled and encouraged her to further adventure; she twisted up her splendid hair, bound it with her blue kerchief, flung blouse and chemisette from her, and gave herself to the sparkling stream with a sigh of ecstasy. Alders swept the eastern edges of the current where the rivulet widened beyond the basin and ran south along the meadow’s edge to the Wood of Sainte Lesse--a cool, unruffled flow, breast deep, floored with sand as soft as silver velvet. She waded, floated, swam a little, or, erect, roamed leisurely along the alder fringe, exploring the dim green haunts of frog and water-hen, stoat and bécassine--a slim, wet dryad, gliding silently through sun and dappled shadow. Where the stream comes to Sainte Lesse Wood, there is a hill set thick with hazel and clumps of fern, haunted by one roe-deer and numerous rabbits and pheasants.