Daphnè had walked slowly on, pressing the crook involuntarily to her heart, and arrived at the river side, impelled by a desire for solitude, without knowing why. There are some mysterious influences to which damsels of seventeen seem particularly subject. A lamb--the gentlest of the flock, which had become accustomed to her caresses--had followed her like a dog. She passed her small hand lightly over the snowy neck of the favourite, and looked round to see what the party she had left were doing. She was astonished to see her mother and Hector conversing, as if they had been acquainted for ages, while Madame d'Urtis and Amaranthe were running a race towards the park. She sat down on the grassy bank, exactly opposite the oziers where she had seen Hector the preceding day. When she felt she was quite alone, she ventured to look at the crook. It was a branch of ash of good size, ornamented with a rustic bouquet and a bunch of ribands, not very skilfully tied. Daphnè was just going to improve the knot, when she saw a billet hid in the flowers. What should she do?--read it? That were dangerous; her confessor did not allow such venialities--her mamma would be enraged--some people are so fond of monopolies--and besides, she might be discovered. 'Twould be better, then, _not_ to read it--a much simpler proceeding; for couldn't she nearly guess what was in it? And what did she care what was in it? Not to read it was evidently the safer mode; and accordingly she--read it through and through, and blushed and smiled, and read it through and through again. It was none of your commonplace prosaic epistles--'twas all poetry, all fire; her mamma would have been enchanted if the verses had only been addressed to her. Here they are:-- "My sweetest hour, my happiest day, Was in the happy month of May! The happy dreams that round me lay On that delicious morn of May!" "I saw thee! loved thee! If my love A tribute unrejected be, The happiest day of May shall prove The happiest of my life to me!" It is quite evident that if such an open declaration had been made in plain prose, Daphnè would have been angry; but in verse, 'twas nothing but a poetical license. Instead, therefore, of tearing it in pieces, and throwing it into the water, she folded it carefully up, and placed it in the pretty corset of white satin, which seems the natural escritoire of a shepherdess in her teens. Scarcely had she closed the drawer, and double locked it, when she saw at her side--Hector and Madame Deshoulieres. "My poor child," said the poetess, "how thoughtful you seem on Lignon's flowery side--forgetful of your sheep--" 'That o'er the meadows negligently stray!' Monsieur de Langevy, as you have given her a crook, methinks you ought to aid her in her duties in watching the flock. As for myself, I must be off to finish a letter to my bishop.