As he looked about, Frédéric saw an old woman seated under a fig-tree. She was evidently very old, but her venerable face was the mirror of a calm and peaceful soul. He gazed at her for some time with profound respect; it was she who had adopted Anne, who had filled her mother's place. The good old woman's face lighted up as the dumb girl approached her, carrying a wooden bowl filled with milk, which she placed on Marguerite's knees. The old woman patted her cheek, saying: "That is nice, my girl, my dear child. Sit down here by my side. You know how I like to look at you while I am eating." The girl at once sat down in front of Marguerite; she seemed to be on the alert to anticipate her lightest wish, and more than once she raised her withered hand and kissed it respectfully. Frédéric did not stir; he could have passed hours watching that picture. The old woman, after she had finished her meal of milk and fruit, rose, and with Sister Anne's assistance walked two or three times about the garden. Frédéric concealed himself when they passed, but he noticed that the girl glanced into the woods, as if looking for someone. Could that glance be for him! Ah! if so, how fortunate he would be! his heart dared to conceive the hope. He was tempted to enter the garden, to throw himself at the dumb girl's feet; but Marguerite's presence held him back. At last they returned to the cabin, and Frédéric left the spot from which he could look into the garden. He wandered about the woods for some time. Everything brought the orphan's face before him; every tree, every bush spoke of her. Had she not lived in those woods nine long years? Her feet had trodden every foot of turf, and doubtless her eyes had rested on everything that surrounded her. He walked slowly back to the brook, and sat down on the spot where he had first seen Sister Anne. It might be a long while before she came. Frédéric took his notebook and pencil from his pocket, and wrote--what? Poetry for Sister Anne; for is not every lover a poet? and are not poets more eloquent when they are lovers? We have the lines Tibullus wrote for Delia; Ovid immortalized Julia; Orpheus enchanted the Shades while seeking Eurydice; it was love that tuned Anacreon's lyre, love that inspired Sappho; Lesbia's charms aroused Catullus's poetic ardor, and Cynthia's imparted delicacy and passion to the flowing verses of Propertius. Does not Petrarch owe a large part of his renown to Laura? without her, he might have been a poet; but would he have sung of love? To you, Eucharis and Eléonore, we owe the moving elegies of Bertin and Parny's charming verses.