He had never before seen a girl so near; he had not known that lips and eyes could be so pleasant to look at. Everything about the girl seemed to possess a strange fascination for him—her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue cotton skirt hanging from braces which stretched with the motion of her shoulders. Then his glance glided along the arm which was handing him the tool; as far as the elbow this arm was of a golden brown, as though clothed with sun-burn; but higher up, in the shadow of the tucked-up sleeve, Silvère perceived a bare, milk-white roundness. At this he felt confused; however, he leant further over, and at last managed to grasp the chisel. The little peasant-girl was becoming embarrassed. Still they remained there, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned face, and the lad half reclining on the coping of the wall. They could not part from each other. So far they had not exchanged a word, and Silvère even forgot to say, “Thank you.” “What’s your name?” he asked. “Marie,” replied the peasant-girl; “but everybody calls me Miette.” Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in her turn: “And yours?” “My name is Silvère,” the young workman replied. A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently to the music of their names. “I’m fifteen years old,” resumed Silvère. “And you?” “I!” said Miette; “oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints’ Day.” The young workman made a gesture of surprise. “Ah! really!” he said, laughing, “and to think I took you for a woman! You’ve such big arms.” She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her arms. Then they ceased speaking. They remained for another moment gazing and smiling at each other. And finally, as Silvère seemingly had no more questions to ask her, Miette quietly withdrew and went on plucking her weeds, without raising her head. The lad for his part remained on the wall for a while. The sun was setting; a stream of oblique rays poured over the yellow soil of the Jas-Meiffren, which seemed to be all ablaze—one would have said that a fire was running along the ground—and, in the midst of the flaming expanse, Silvère saw the little stooping peasant-girl, whose bare arms had resumed their rapid motion. The blue cotton skirt was now becoming white; and rays of light streamed over the child’s copper-coloured arms. At last Silvère felt somewhat ashamed of remaining there, and accordingly got off the wall.