"I do not know," she replied. We came home through the valley, following the Charlepont road which the peasants, without regard to etymology, persistently called Châllepont. The way was deserted, and Sylvie, weary of riding, leaned upon my arm, while I tried to speak of what was in my heart, but, I know not why, could find only trivial words or stilted phrases from some romance that Sylvie might have read. I stopped suddenly then, in true classic style, and she was occasionally amazed by these disjointed rhapsodies. Having reached the walls of Saint S---- we had to look well to our steps, on account of the numerous stream-lets winding through the damp marshes. "What has become of the nun?" I asked suddenly. "You give me no peace with your nun! Ah, well! it is a sad story!" Not a word more would Sylvie say. Do women really feel that certain words come from the lips rather than the heart? It does not seem probable, to see how readily they are deceived, and what an inexplicable choice they usually make--there are men who play the comedy of love so well! I never could accustom myself to it, although I know some women lend themselves wittingly to the deception. A love that dates from childhood is, however, sacred, and Sylvie, whom I had seen grow up, was like a sister to me; I could not betray her. Suddenly, a new thought came to me. "At this very hour, I might be at the theatre. What is Aurélie (that was the name of the actress) playing to-night? No doubt the part of the Princess in the new play. How touching she is in the third act! And in the love scene of the second with that wrinkled actor who plays the lover!" "Lost in thought?" said Sylvie; and she began to sing: _"A Dammartin l'y a trots belles filles:_ _L'y en a z'une plus belle que le jour...."_ _At Dammartin there are three fair maids,_ _And one of them is fairer than day._ "Little tease!" I cried, "you know you remember the old songs." "If you would come here oftener, I would try to remember more of them," she said; "but we must think of realities; you have your affairs at Paris, I have my work here; let us go in early, for I must rise with the sun to-morrow." XII. FATHER DODU.