The touch of her mother’s arm, the sound of her mother’s voice let loose the floodgates. With a cry of "Oh, Maman!" Marjolaine threw her arms round her mother’s waist and buried her face against her. Madame sat down beside her and drew her very close. "Chérie—my darling! What is the matter?" Marjolaine tried to master herself; tried to put on a brave face; dashed the tears from her eyes, as she answered—"Nothing, Maman. I think—it is so beautiful here!—So peaceful! It made me cry. Let me cry a little on your heart." There was a sad smile on Madame’s face. As if you cried because the sun was shining and the Walk was quiet! "Cry, Marjolaine," she murmured soothingly. "Do you think I have not been watching you all this week? Cry, my darling, and tell me." "There is nothing to tell, Maman," said the girl between her sobs. "Realty and truly there is nothing." She looked wistfully towards the river. "There was something; but—" and down went her head on her mother’s breast—"there is nothing now." Madame stroked the fair head lying on her bosom. "My dear, my dear!—I tried every day to speak to you, but you would not. For the first time in our lives you and I, who should be everything to each other, were parted." "Oh, Maman!" cried Marjolaine, looking up into her mother’s face, "that was because I was waiting to tell you a great secret. But the secret no longer exists. It has"—she made one of her quaint little gestures—"it has—evaporated!" And with a new outburst of tears she again hid her face. Madame looked at her lovingly, and kept silence a moment. So, then, there was a secret? What secret? What but one secret is ever in a young girl’s heart? "Ah, chérie," she murmured, "you see? The secret exists: it is gnawing at your heart. It will hurt you and hurt you, till you tell me." Marjolaine looked up. Her mother was right. Speaking might bring her some relief. She would tell her. She tried to speak; but a look of puzzled amazement came into her eyes. Now that she was willing and anxious to speak, she had nothing to say. "Tell me," repeated Madame. "I can’t, Maman." "Why not?" "I cannot begin alone: I don’t know how." "Shall I help you, Marjolaine?" "Can you?" Madame could only guess; but even if the guess were mistaken, it might lead to the truth. So she spoke tentatively. "Let us say, you were sitting here, under the elm? And that stranger, that young man—"