et dignified bearing, his head thrown well back, his brown,
curled locks falling upon his brow, and floating with the motion of the
dance. Gaud, who was rather tall herself, felt their contact upon her
cap, as he bent towards her to grasp her more tightly during the swift
movements.

Now and then he pointed out to her his little sister Marie, dancing with
Sylvestre, who was her _fiance_. He smiled with a very tender look
at seeing them both so young and yet so reserved towards one another,
bowing gravely, and putting on very timid airs as they communed lowly,
on most amiable subjects, no doubt.

Of course, Yann would never have allowed it to be otherwise; yet it
amused him, venturesome and bold as he was, to find them so coy; and
he and Gaud exchanged one of their confidential smiles, seeming to say:
"How pretty, but how funny _our_ little brother is!"

Towards the close of the evening, all the girls received the breaking-up
kiss; cousins, betrothed, and lovers, all, in a good frank, honest way,
before everybody. But, of course, Yann had not kissed Gaud; none might
take that liberty with the daughter of M. Mevel; but he seemed to strain
her a little more tightly to him during the last waltzes, and she,
trusting him, did not resist, but yielded closer still, giving up her
whole soul, in the sudden, deep, and joyous attraction that bound her to
him.

"Did you see the saucy minx, what eyes she made at him?" queried two
or three girls, with their own eyes timidly bent under their golden or
black brows, though they had among the dancers one or two lovers, to say
the least. And truly Gaud did look at Yann very hard, only she had
the excuse that he was the first and only young man whom she ever had
noticed in her life.

At dawn, when the party broke up and left in confusion, they had taken
leave of one another, like betrothed ones, who are sure to meet the
following day. To return home, she had crossed this same market-place
with her father, little fatigued, feeling light and gay, happy to
breathe the frosty fog, and loving the sad dawn itself, so sweet and
enjoyable seemed bare life.

The May night had long since fallen; nearly all the windows had closed
with a grating of their iron fittings, but Gaud remained at her place,
leaving hers open. The last passers-by, who could distinguish the white
cap in the darkness, might say to themselves, "That's surely some girl,
dreaming of her sweetheart." It was true, for she was