istance; she
must have finished her work in that part of the Jas. A week passed in
this fashion, and the young people had no opportunity of exchanging a
single word. Silvere was in despair; he thought of boldly going to the
Rebufats to ask for Miette.

The party-well was a large one, but not very deep. On either side of
the wall the curb formed a large semicircle. The water was only ten or
twelve feet down at the utmost. This slumbering water reflected the two
apertures of the well, two half-moons between which the shadow of the
wall cast a black streak. On leaning over, one might have fancied in the
vague light that the half-moons were two mirrors of singular clearness
and brilliance. Under the morning sunshine, when the dripping of the
ropes did not disturb the surface of the water, these mirrors, these
reflections of the heavens, showed like white patches on the green
water, and in them the leaves of the ivy which had spread along the wall
over the well were repeated with marvellous exactness.

One morning, at an early hour, Silvere, as he came to draw water for
aunt Dide, bent over the well mechanically, just as he was taking hold
of the rope. He started, and then stood motionless, still leaning over.
He had fancied that he could distinguish in the well the face of a young
girl who was looking at him with a smile; however, he had shaken the
rope, and the disturbed water was now but a dim mirror that no longer
reflected anything clearly. Silvere, who did not venture to stir, and
whose heart beat rapidly, then waited for the water to settle. As
its ripples gradually widened and died away, he perceived the image
reappearing. It oscillated for a long time, with a swing which lent
a vague, phantom-like grace to its features, but at last it remained
stationary. It was the smiling countenance of Miette, with her head
and shoulders, her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, and her blue
braces. Silvere next perceived his own image in the other mirror. Then,
knowing that they could see each other, they nodded their heads. For
the first moment, they did not even think of speaking. At last they
exchanged greetings.

"Good morning, Silvere."

"Good morning, Miette."

They were surprised by the strange sound of their voices, which became
singularly soft and sweet in that damp hole. The sound seemed, indeed,
to come from a distance, like the soft music of voices heard of an
evening in the country. They understood that it