In September they could go out after the midday meal and explore that land of thirst: there was not a drop of water to be seen at Argelouse. They had to walk far into the sandy country before they reached the sources of the little river called La Hure, where they bubble up among the alder trees in a low-lying meadow. The girls’ bare feet were benumbed by the icy water, but they soon grew burning hot again, before they were even dry. Like the darkened drawing-room at home, one of the huts used in October by the pigeon-shooters, gave them shelter. They had nothing to say, not one word: they sat in virgin contemplation while time fled by, and no more thought of moving than a sportsman who signals for silence when the birds are coming over. They felt as though the slightest gesture would have put to flight their chaste ingenuous happiness. Anne was the first to break the spell,--it was growing dark and she wanted to go out shooting larks: Thérèse, though she detested the sport, followed her, for she could not bear to lose a minute of her company. Anne went into the entrance hall and took down her .24 which had no recoil. Her friend watched her standing in the field of rye apparently aiming at the sun. Thérèse stopped her ears: a sudden wild cry broke the blue stillness, and the huntress picked up the wounded bird, squeezed it carefully, and, as she was actually brushing the warm feathers against her lips, choked it. “You will come to-morrow, won’t you?” “Oh, no, I mustn’t come every day.” Anne did not want to see her every day: this was perfectly sensible and Thérèse could say nothing; indeed, it would not have occurred to her to object. Anne said she would rather not come back. No, there was nothing to prevent her, but why should they see each other every day? They would end, she said, by hating the sight of each other. “You’re quite right,” Thérèse replied, “don’t make an obligation of it. Come back when you feel like it,--when you have nothing better to do,” and the girl jumped on her bicycle, and disappeared down the darkening road, ringing her bell. Thérèse walked back towards the house. The tenants greeted her from a distance, though the children stared at her and said nothing. It was that hour of the evening when the sheep stand scattered under the oak trees, and then rush together into a huddled mass when they hear the shepherd’s cry. Her Aunt was looking out for her on the doorstep, and, as deaf people will, talked incessantly, so as to prevent Thérèse saying anything to her. What was this despair in her heart? She did not want to read; she did not want to do anything, and wandered out of doors once more.... “Don’t go far away,” said the Aunt; “dinner will soon be ready.”