Marguelette assured me that almost all the young lady's wardrobe was within immediate reach, for that the baron had gone off so hastily, he had taken little enough for the journey with him. Louise, therefore, was soon equipped for her walk, and, leaning fondly on my arm, she went forth, walking with me from post to post for about half an hour. Not knowing what was in my heart, she might, doubtless, wonder at the fits of silent thoughtfulness into which I fell, and, beginning to think that all went not well with me, she asked, with the sweetest and tenderest tones of her sweet and tender voice, what made me so sad, and why I did not tell my own Louise. I replied that I would tell her presently, and, walking forth out of the hamlet, I led her past the old manoir, where the Prince de Condé had made his abode for a time, up the slope of the hill to a little wood of tall fir-trees, whose ever-green tops spread out till they met each other, although the bolls below were far apart, suffering the clear rays of the low winter sun to stream in over the red and yellow leaves which had fallen from the branches above, and thickly strewed the ground beneath. The day, indeed, was as bright as summer, and it was cheerful and refreshing too; but there was something which told that it was not summer; something in the aspect of the whole scene which gave a shade of thoughtfulness, if I may so call it, even to the brightness of the morning. The blades of grass upon the sides of the hill were all shining as if they had been decorated with gems; but one saw and felt that, like the blaze of light upon many another gem, the sunshine fell upon nothing but frostwork, and that everything was cold and frozen underneath. There was now no fog upon the ground, and through the clear, calm air the church of Loudun and various other buildings in that small town were seen rising up in the distance, and we paused, and gazed over the scene around, without one sound breaking the wintry silence of nature. "How far is it to that town?" demanded Louise, after gazing for some time. "Nearly five miles, dear one," I replied. "How near it looks!" she said: "I should not have thought it were two." "It looks so near, dear Louise," I replied, "from the clearness of the wintry air; and so it is, Louise," I said, "With future as with distant things. To the calm, cold, icy eye of experience and reason, the future and distant times, the five or six years hence, look near as if we could touch them; the space between dwindles down to nothing, and the rest of life seems but as a moment: while, on the contrary, in the warm and sunny days of youth, the airy mist of passion, of fancy, and of expectation, throws every future thing far, far away, and the five or six years that lie between us and happiness seem a long age of wearisome expectation."