"Well, then," she said, gravely, "let us see. Kneel down and pick the strawberries that grow upon this bank; they are for the Visconte de Charrebourg." "I am too grateful to be employed." "You are much older, Monsieur, than I." "No doubt." "And have seen more of the world, too." "True, Mademoiselle," and he could not forbear smiling. "Well, then, you ought not to have tried to meet me in the park so often as you did--or indeed at all--you know very well you ought not." "But, Mademoiselle, what harm can the most ill-natured of human critics discover----" "Oh, but listen to me. I begin to fear I have been wrong in talking to you as I have done; and if so, you ought not to have presented yourself to me as you did. I have reflected on it since. In fact, I don't know who you are, Monsieur Dubois. The Charrebourgs do not use to make companions of everybody; and you may be a roturier, for anything I can tell." Monsieur Dubois smiled again. "I see you laugh because we are poor," she said, with a heightened color and a flashing glance. "Mademoiselle misunderstands me. I am incapable of that. There is no point at which ridicule can approach the family of Charrebourg." "That is true, sir," she said, haughtily; and she added, "and on that account I need not inquire wherefore people smile. But this seems plain to me--that I have done very wrong in conversing alone with a gentleman of whom I know nothing beyond his name. You must think so yourself, though you will not say it; and as you profess your willingness to oblige me, I have only to ask that all these foolish conversations may be quite forgotten between us. And now the _petit pannier_ is filled, and it is time that I should return. Good evening, Monsieur Dubois--farewell." "This is scarcely a kind farewell, considering that we have been good friends, Mademoiselle de Charrebourg, for so long." "Good friends--yes--for a long time; but you know," she continued, with a sad, wise shake of her pretty head, "I ought not to allow gentlemen whom I chance to meet here to be my friends--is it not so? This has only struck me recently, Monsieur Dubois; and I am sure you used to think me very strange. But I have no one to advise me; I have no mother--she is dead; and the Visconte seldom speaks to me; and so I fear I often do strange things without intending; and--and I have told you all this, because I should be sorry you thought ill of me, Monsieur Dubois." She dropped her eyes for a moment to the ground, with an expression at once very serious and regretful. "Then am I condemned to be henceforward a stranger to _dear_ Mademoiselle de Charrebourg?" "I have told you all my thoughts, Monsieur Dubois," she answered, in a tone whose melancholy made it nearly as tender as his own. But, perhaps, some idea crossed her mind that piqued her pride; for suddenly recollecting herself, she added, in a tone it may be a little more abrupt and haughty than her usual manner--