A slight color comes to her bright cheek, for it is impossible to misunderstand his eloquent glance. "Are you?" she says; "but that is wrong. Fie on't! Was ever Corydon really in love with his Chloe--or are his affections always confined to the fluttering ribbons, and the crook, wreathed with flowers, which make her a pleasant object only, like a picture?" Jacques sighs. "I am not a Corydon," he says, "much less have I a Chloe--at least, who treats me as Chloes should treat their faithful shepherds. My Chloe runs away when I approach, and her crook turns into a shadow which I grasp in vain at. The shepherdess has escaped!" "It is well she don't beat you," says the lovely girl, smiling. "Beat me!" "With her crook." "Ah! I ask nothing better than to excite some emotion in her tender heart more lively than indifference. Perhaps were she to hate me a little, and consequently beat me, as you have said, she might end by drawing me towards her with her flowery crook." The young girl laughs. "Would you follow?" "Ah, yes--for who knows----?" He pauses, smiling wistfully. "Ah, finish--finish! I know 'tis something pretty by the manner in which you smile," she says, laughing. "Who knows, I would say, but in following her, fairest Belle-bouche--may I call you Belle-bouche?" "Oh yes, if you please--if you think it suits me." And she pours the full light of her eyes and smiles upon him, until he looks down, blinded. "Pity, pity," he murmurs, "pity, dearest Miss Belle-bouche----" She pretends not to hear, but, turning away with a blush at that word "dearest," says, with an attempt at a laugh: "You have not told me why you would wish your Chloe to draw you after her with her crook." "Because we should pass through the groves----" "Well." "And I should wrap her in my cloak, to protect her from the boughs and thorns." "Would you?" "Ah, yes! And then we should cross the beautiful meadows and the flowery knolls----" "Very well, sir." "And I should gather flowers for her, and kneeling to present them, would approach near enough to kiss her hand----" "Oh goodness!" "And finally, fairest Belle-bouche, we should cross the bright streams on the pretty sylvan bridges----" "Yes, sir." "And most probably she would grow giddy; and I should take her in my arms, and holding her on my faithful bosom----" Jacques opens his arms as though he would really clasp the fair shepherdess, who, half risen, with her golden curls mingled with the flowers, her cheeks the color of her red fluttering ribbons, seeks to escape the declaration which her lover is about to make. "Oh, no! no!" she says. He draws back despairingly, and at the same moment hears a merry voice come singing down the blossom-fretted walk, upon which millions of the snowy leaves have fallen. "One more chance gone!" the melancholy Jacques murmurs; and turning, he bows to the new comer--the fair Philippa. CHAPTER III. AN HEIRESS WHO WISHES TO BECOME A MAN.