Monsieur Roget was glad that he was alone when he uttered this exclamation, which cannot convey what it is meant to in print. Of course, across there on the other side of the clearing was the low stone wall, and the reliquary with the figure of the Virgin, and doubtless at the bottom of the slope the other side would be—the well! It was exactly on this spot that he had met Diane—God in heaven! how long ago? Ten, twenty, thirty.... Exactly thirty-seven years ago! And how vividly it could all come back to one! He was twenty-two then, a slim young man—considered elegant and rather distinguished-looking by some people—an orphan, without either brothers or sisters, the inheritor of a quite substantial competence from his father, who had been a ship-broker at Marseilles. He had gone to Paris to educate himself and to prepare for a commercial career. He was a serious young man, with modest ambitions, rather moody and given to abstract speculations. Paris bewildered him, and he used to escape when he could, and seek solitude in the country. At length he decided that he must settle down to some definite career, and he became articled to a firm of chartered accountants: Messrs. Manson et Cie. He took rooms at a quiet _pension_ near the Luxembourg, and there fell in love with his patron’s daughter, Lucile, a demure and modest brunette. The affair was almost settled, but not quite. Monsieur Roget, even in those days, was a man who never put his leg over the wall till he had seen the other side. He was circumspect, cautious, and there was indeed plenty of time. And then one day he had found himself on this identical hillock. He could not quite clearly remember how he came to be there. Probably he had come for the day, to escape the clamor of Paris. He certainly had no luggage. He was seated on this spot, dreaming and enjoying the view, when he heard a cry coming from the other side of the low stone wall. He jumped up and ran to it, and lo! on the other side he beheld—Diane! The name was peculiarly appropriate. She was lying there on her side like a wounded huntress. When she caught sight of him she called out: “Ah, monsieur, will you be so kind as to help me? I fear I have sprained my ankle.” Paul Roget leapt the wall and ran to her assistance. (The thought of leaping a wall now made him gasp!) He lifted her up, trembling himself, and making sympathetic little clucks with his tongue. “Pardon, pardon! very distressing!” he murmured, when she stood erect. “If monsieur will be good enough to allow me to rest my hand on his shoulder, I shall be able to hop back to the _auberge_.” “With the greatest pleasure. Allow me.” On the ground was an upturned pail. He remarked: “Would it distress mademoiselle to stand for one minute, whilst I re-fill the pail?” “Oh, no, no,” she exclaimed. “Do not inconvenience yourself.” “Then perhaps mademoiselle will allow me to return for the pail?” “Oh, no, if you please! My father will do it.”