Livette watched them floating quietly by, and thought of a tale her grandmother had told her. According to the grandmother, the threads came from the cloaks spread to the wind as sails by the three holy women. The wind, as it filled them, had unravelled them a little, very carefully; and the slender threads, taken long ago from the woof of the miraculous cloaks, hover forever above the sands of Camargue, where stands the church of the holy women.--Above the strand they hover night and day, as so many tokens of God's blessing; but they are rarely visible, and if, by chance, on a fine day, you do see them, it means that some great good fortune is in store for you. In the transparent azure of the morning sky Livette's heart clung to each of the passing threads; but the child tried in vain to acquire confidence,--her heart was too heavy to remain long attached to the fleeting things. She was afraid, poor child, and felt influences at work against her that she could not see. Alas! while the golden threads floated over her head, the black spider was weaving his web somewhere about, to catch her like a fly. Still musing, Livette rode on, and could distinguish at last, far before her, the swallows and martins soaring above the steeple. They were so far away you would have said they were swarms of gnats. And with the swallows and martins were numberless sea-mews. This host of wings, large and small, now dark as seen from below, now bright and gleaming as seen from above, turned and twirled and gyrated in countless intricate, interlacing circles. Instinct with the spirit of the spring-time and the morning, they were frolicking in the fresh, clear air. It occurred to Livette to ride by the public spring in quest of news, for it was the hour when the women and maidens of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer go thither to procure their daily supply of water. As she entered the village, she noticed the gipsy camp at her right hand, but turned her head. At that moment, she met two women on their way to the spring, walking steadily between the two bars, the ends of which they held in their hands, and from which, exactly in the middle, the water-jug was suspended by its two ears. "It is just the time for the spring," said Livette to herself, and she followed them at a foot-pace. "Good-day, mademoiselle," the women said as they passed, for the pretty maiden of the Château d'Avignon was known to everybody. There was as yet no one at the spring. The two women waited, and Livette with them. "How do you happen to be riding about so early, mademoiselle? Are you looking for some one?" "I am out for a ride," said Livette, "and as it's the time for drawing water, I thought I would stop here a moment. My friends will surely come sooner or later."