Old Peter's sympathies went with all things human, and he loved to watch the village life and catch what he could of its ways and instincts. His sister, to whom the love of scenery was a passion, never wearied of the picturesque land they travelled; and as for Josephine, she was no longer the demure pensionnaire of the convent,--thoughtful and reserved, even to secrecy,--but a happy child, revelling in a thousand senses of enjoyment, and actually exulting in the beauty of all she saw around her. What depression must come of captivity, when even its faintest image, the cloister, could have weighed down a heart like hers! Such was Barrington's thought as he beheld her at play with the peasant children, weaving garlands for a village _fête_, or joyously joining the chorus of a peasant song. There was, besides, something singularly touching in the half-consciousness of her freedom, when recalled for an instant to the past by the tinkling bell of a church. She would seem to stop in her play, and bethink her how and why she was there, and then, with a cry of joy, bound away after her companions in wild delight. “Dearest aunt,” said she, one day, as they sat on a rocky ledge over the little river that traverses the Lahnech, “shall I always find the same enjoyment in life that I feel now, for it seems to me this is a measure of happiness that could not endure?” “Some share of this is owing to contrast, Fifine. Your convent life had not too many pleasures.” “It was, or rather it seems to me now, as I look back, a long and weary dream; but, at the same time, it appears more real than this; for do what I may I cannot imagine this to be the world of misery and sorrow I have heard so much of. Can any one fancy a scene more beautiful than this before us? Where is the perfume more exquisite than these violets I now crush in my hand? The peasants, as they salute us, look happy and contented. Is it, then, only in great cities that men make each other miserable?” Dinah shook her head, but did not speak. “I am so glad grandpapa does not live in a city. Aunt, I am never wearied of hearing you talk of that dear cottage beside the river; and through all my present delight I feel a sense of impatience to be there, to be at 'home.'” “So that you will not hold us to our pledge to bring you back to Bramaigne, Fifine,” said Miss Dinah, smiling. “Oh no, no! Not if you will let me live with you. Never!” “But you have been happy up to this, Fifine? You have said over and over again that your convent life was dear to you, and all its ways pleasant.”