lies drifted on glimmering wings; she put them into her song;
the meadow was gay with butterflies' painted wings; she sang about them,
too. Cloud and azure sky, tree tops and clover, the tiny rivulet dancing
through deep grasses, the wind furrowing the fields, all these she put
into her _chansonnette de laveuse_. And always in the clear glass of the
stream she seemed to see the smiling face of her friend, Djack--her lover
who had opened her eyes of a child to all things beautiful in the world.

Once or twice, from very far away, she fancied she heard the distant
singing of the negro muleteers sunning themselves down by the corral. She
heard, at quarter-hour intervals, her bells melodiously recording time as
it sped by; then there were intervals of that sweet stillness which is but
a composite harmony of summer--the murmur of insects, the whisper of
leaves and water, capricious seconds of intense silence, then the hushed
voice of life exquisitely audible again.

War, wickedness, the rage and cruelty of the Beast--all the vile and
filthy ferocity of the ferocious Swine of the North became to her as
unreal as a tragic legend half-forgotten. And death seemed very far away.

------------------

Her washing was done; the wet clothing piled in her basket. Perspiration
powdered her forehead and delicate little nose.

Hot, flushed, breathing deeply and irregularly from her efforts under a
vertical sun, she stood erect, loosening the blouse over her bosom to the
breeze and pushing back the clustering masses of hair above her brow.

The water laughed up at her, invitingly; the last floating castle of white
foam swept past her feet down stream. On the impulse of the moment she
unlaced her blue wool skirt, dropped it around her feet, stepped from it;
unbuckled both garters, stripped slippers and stockings from her feet, and
waded out into the pool.

The fresh, delicious coolness of the water thrilled and encouraged her to
further adventure; she twisted up her splendid hair, bound it with her
blue kerchief, flung blouse and chemisette from her, and gave herself to
the sparkling stream with a sigh of ecstasy.

Alders swept the eastern edges of the current where the rivulet widened
beyond the basin and ran south along the meadow's edge to the Wood of
Sainte Lesse--a cool, unruffled flow, breast deep, floored with sand as
soft as silver velvet.

She waded, floated, swam a little, or, erect, roamed lei