me of the people wore bouquets in their hats.
"Apparently a wedding," remarked Valentine. "But where is the bride?"
interposed Eugenie. "It rather seems to me to be one of those
expeditions which now daily proceed to the vintage accompanied by
singing and music. But you have just mentioned weddings; that reminds
me of the great aim of our excursion. Come let us descend." He appeared
not to have heard her. "Eugenie," he said, "if we had stood up here
fourteen years ago, all would have been different."

"Who can say if it would have been better. I am inclined to think that
all that happens to us is well, and for our good."

He had pulled out the apple, and held it before him on the stone
parapet.

"Do you really believe that Eugenie?"

"Yes, I do."

"And if I had told you then, what escaped from my lips, the first
evening we again met, what would have been your answer?"

"That question, is a matter of conscience, my dear friend," she
replied, carelessly, "which even up here a hundred feet above the every
day world you are not justified in asking. Before I could give you a
clear and concise answer, I should have to read through some chapters
in the book of my life, which I have not perused for many a year." "And
that truly is a trouble which I cannot expect you to take," he replied
in a pained, harsh tone. "Besides it would be useless labour as the
writing must have long since faded. I forgot that though the chapters
in my book, end in a blank, yours have a continuation." Saying these
words he leant over the parapet, and the apple he held in his hand
rolled as if by accident over the edge. In its fall it struck one of
the many pinnacles which surrounded the spire, and broke into several
pieces, which flew, describing wide curves, into the street.

"What have you done Valentine?" exclaimed Eugenie; "where shall we be
able to steal another apple? Only fruits of stone can be plucked here.
But now let us hasten down."

"You are right," he replied, indifferently, "here every thing is of
stone; I did not think of that." Then he remained silent till they
reached the streets. The gloom however, which had settled on his
countenance, could not hold out against the unconstrained gaiety of his
companion. His brow cleared before they had taken many steps on their
way to the inn. She had taken his arm through the narrow tortuous
streets, her cloak, which in the warm sunshine had become too heavy for
her, hung loosely from her