here the wind caught it,
drove it east, but it still mounted skyward, higher, higher, sailing
always eastward, until it dwindled to the size of a thistledown and faded
away in mid-air.

Astounded, the little mistress-of-the-bells stood motionless, waist deep
in the stream, lips parted, eyes straining to pierce the dazzling ether
above.

And then, before her incredulous gaze, another pearl-tinted, translucent
bubble slowly floated upward from the thicket near the aspens, mounted
until the breeze struck it, then soared away skyward and melted like a
snowflake into the east.

Moving as stealthily as some sinuous creature of the water-weeds, the girl
stole forward, threading her way among the rushes, gliding, twisting
around tussock and alder, creeping along fern-set banks, her eyes ever
focused on the clump of aspens quivering against the sky above the hazel.

She could see nobody, hear not a sound from the thicket on the little
hill. But another bubble rose above the aspens as she looked.

Naked, she dared not advance into the woods--scarcely dared linger where
she was, yet found enough courage to creep out on a carpet of moss and lie
flat under a young fir, listening and watching.

No more bubbles rose above the aspens; there was not a sound, not a
movement in the hazel.

For an hour or more she lay there; then, with infinite caution, she
slipped back into the stream, waded across, crept into the meadow, and
sped like a scared fawn along the bank until she stood panting by the
stone-rimmed pool again.

Sun and wind had dried her skin; she dressed rapidly, swung her basket to
her head, and started swiftly for Sainte Lesse.

Before she came in sight of the White Doe Tavern, she could hear the negro
muleteers singing down by the corral. Sticky Smith still squatted in the
garden by the river-wall, smoking his pipe. Her father lay asleep in his
chair, his wrinkled hands still clasping the fishing pole, the warm breeze
blowing his white hair at the temples.

She disposed of the wash; then she and Sticky Smith gently aroused the
crippled bell-master and aided him into the house.

The old peasant woman who cooked for the inn had soup ready. The noonday
meal in Sainte Lesse had become an extremely simple affair.

"Monsieur Steek," said the girl carelessly, "did you ever, as a child, fly
toy balloons?"

"Sure, Maryette. A old Eyetalian wop used to come 'round town selling
them. He had a stick with about a hundred l