Now, just at that moment Hector's mind was set on passing the river of Love. In casting his eyes all round in search of a passage, he perceived an old willow half thrown across the stream. With a little courage and activity, it was a graceful and poetical bridge. Hector resolved to try it. He rose and went right onward towards the tree; but, when he arrived, he couldn't help reflecting that, at that season, the river was immensely deep. He disdained the danger--sprang lightly up the trunk, and flung himself along one of the branches, dropping, happily without any accident, on the meadow of the Chateau d'Urtis. Little more was left for him to do; and that little he did. He went towards the fair shepherdesses. He tried to overcome his timidity--he overwhelmed the first sheep of the flock with his insidious caresses--and then, finding himself within a few feet of Amaranthe--he bowed, and smiled, and said, "Mademoiselle." He was suddenly interrupted by a clear and silvery voice. "There are no Mesdemoiselles here--there are only two shepherdesses, Amaranthe and Daphnè." Hector had prepared a complimentary speech for a young lady attending a flock of sheep--but he hadn't a word to say to a shepherdess. He bowed again, and there was a pause. "Fair Amaranthe," he said--"and fair Daphnè, will you permit a mortal to tread these flowery plains?" Amaranthe received the speech with a smile, in which a little raillery was mingled. "You speak like a true shepherd," she said. But Daphnè was more good-natured, and more touched with the politeness of the sportsman. She cast her eyes on the ground and blushed. "Oh--if you wish to pass through these meadows," she said--"we shall be"-- "We were going to do the honours of our reception room," continued Amaranthe, "and offer you a seat on the grass." "'Tis too much happiness to throw myself at your feet," replied Hector, casting himself on one knee. But he had not looked where he knelt, and he broke Daphnè's crook. "Oh, my poor crook!" she said--and sighed. "What have I done?" cried Hector. "I am distressed at my stupidity--I will cut you another from the ash grove below. But you loved this crook," he added--"the gift, perhaps, of some shepherd--some shepherd? --no, some prince; for you yourselves are princesses--or fairies." "We are nothing but simple shepherdesses," said Amaranthe. "You are nothing but beautiful young ladies from the capital," said Hector, "on a visit at the Chateau d'Urtis. Heaven be praised--for in my walks I shall at least catch glimpses of you at a distance, if I dare not come near. I shall see you glinting among the trees like enchantresses of old." "Yes, we are Parisians, as you have guessed--but retired for ever from the world and its deceitful joys." Amaranthe had uttered the last words in a declamatory tone; you might have thought them a quotation from her mamma.