"It came from under the rye-stacks. He--that is always the Chevalier, you know--was walking through the rye-fields when the moon was up; the reapers had all gone home. He heard a small cry withering under the wheat, and stayed to listen. Most men would not have heard such a weak cry; no man would have stayed to listen, except one, perhaps, besides. He put aside all the loose ears, and he found under them--for it could not move--this wretched lark, with its foot broken,--broken by the sickle." There was no quiver of voice or lip as she spoke. I mention this merely because I am not fond of the mere sentiment almost all women infuse into the sufferings of inferior creatures, while those with loftier claims and pains are overlooked. She went on,-- "How do you think he took it up? He spread his handkerchief over the stubble, and shelled a grain or two, which he placed within reach of the lark upon the white table-cloth. The lark tried very hard, and hopped with its best foot to reach the grains, then he drew the four corners together, and brought it here to me. I thought it would die, but it has not died; and now it knows me, and has no mind to go away." "Does it know him?" "Not only so, but for him alone will it sing. I let it fly one day when its foot was well; but the next morning I found it outside the window pecking at its cage-wires, and it said, 'Take me back again, if you please.'" "That is like the Chevalier too. But you _are_ like him; I suppose it is being so much with him." "And yet I never saw him till the first day I saw you, and you had seen him long before. I think it must be dead, it is so still." Hereupon she uncovered the lark's head; it peeped up, and slowly, with sly scrutiny, hopped back to the peach and began to feed, driving in its little bill. I wanted to know something now, and my curiosity in those days had not so much as received a wholesome check, much less a quietus; and therefore presumptuously demanded,-- "Who was the somebody, Fräulein Cerinthia, that might stop to listen to a bird's cry besides the Chevalier. You stopped." "And that is why you wished to know. I had better have said it in the right place. Did anybody ever tell you you are audacious? It was Florimond Anastase." "My master!" and I clapped my hands. "Mine, sir, if you please." "But he teaches me the violin." "And he does not teach me the violin, but is yet my master." "How, why?" "I belong to him, or shall." "Do you mean that you are married to Anastase?" "Not yet, or I should not be here." "But you will be?" "Yes,--that is, if nothing should happen to prevent our being married." "You like to be so, I suppose?" She gazed up and smiled. Her eyes grew liquid as standing dew. "I will not say you are again audacious, because you are so very innocent. I do wish it." "I said _like_, Fräulein Cerinthia." "You can make a distinction too. Suppose I said, No." "I should not believe you while you look so."