Beyond the old windmill, on the estate of St. Cyr, the stream turned its course westward and tumbling over a rock, fell four or five feet into a broader rivulet and then flowed placidly on, twisting and turning at last toward the valley of the Vaunage. The gray cliff’s towered boldly, hiding the little falls, locking them in a spot as wild and as deserted as the wildernesses of the Cévennes. But below, where the stream widened, the banks were mossy, and in summer ferns and wild flowers clustered, and on either bank was a fringe of juniper bushes, and beyond, the tall, well-nurtured chestnut trees. Here were fish,--the brown trout darting through the placid waters, and the eels, and there were always birds in the trees when the chestnuts blossomed. But now the touch of autumn was upon it; the moss showed brown tints, and the nuts fell from the opening burrs, and the squirrels were gathering their winter stores. On the edge of the stream stood Rosaline St. Cyr, looking down into its clear depths at the pebbles in its bed. A little way off was Babet with a basket, and Charlot, the cobbler, knelt on the bank digging up a hardy fern with a broad knife, that had been given him for the purpose by the housekeeper. Truffe meanwhile ran about under the trees barking at every nut that dropped. The scene, in its rustic peace and simplicity, struck the shoemaker in pleasant contrast with that other scene in Nîmes. He was slow at his task, taking the root up carefully and lingering over it so long that Babet grew impatient. “How long thou art, Petit Bossu!” she said, her arms akimbo. “_Ciel_, I could have dug up forty! We were doing better before you came.” “_C’est fini_,” replied the hunchback, holding up the fern. “Here it is; how many will you have?” Rosaline turned toward him. She had a large straw hat tied under her chin with blue ribbons, and her cheeks were like roses. “We want four like that, Charlot,” she said cheerfully; “_grand’mère_ always has a box of ferns for winter; they make a green spot in the room, and that is so pretty.” “But, mademoiselle, ’tis near supper time,” protested Babet, “and we have been here all the morning.” Rosaline laughed--a happy, careless laugh. “You may go home,” she said; “Charlot will bring me back when the basket is full, and we must not lose our dish of mushrooms for supper. Run along, Babet, and set the kettle boiling.”