iling up at her a friendly greeting, despite the
wintry cold of February. She knelt down and gently cleared away the dry
leaves and grass about it, carefully broke the frail little stem, and
returned to de Sigognac's side with her treasure--more delighted than if
she had found a precious jewel lying hidden among the mosses.

"Only see, how exquisitely beautiful and delicate it is"--said she,
showing it to him--"with its dear little petals scarcely unrolled yet
to return the greeting of this bright, warm sunshine, that has roused it
from its long winter sleep."

"It was not the sunshine, however bright and warm," answered de
Sigognac, "but the light of your eyes, sweet Isabelle, that made it open
out to greet you--and it is exactly the colour too of those dear eyes of
yours."

"It has scarcely any fragrance, but that is because it's so cold," said
Isabelle, loosening her scarf, and putting it carefully inside the ruff
that encircled her slender, white neck. In a few minutes she took it out
again, inhaled its rich perfume, pressed it furtively to her lips, and
offered it to de Sigognac.

"See how sweet it is now! The warmth I imparted to it has reassured
the little modest, timid blossom, and it breathes out its incomparable
fragrance in gratitude to me."

"Say rather that it has received it from you," he replied, raising the
violet tenderly to his lips, and taking from it the kiss Isabelle had
bestowed--"for this delicate, delicious odour has nothing gross or
earthly about it--it is angelically pure and sweet, like yourself, my
own Isabelle."

"Ah! the naughty flatterer," said she, smiling upon him with all her
heart in her eyes. "I give him a little flower that he may enjoy its
perfume, and straightway he draws from it inspiration for all sorts of
high-flown conceits, and fine compliments. There's no doing anything
with him--to the simplest, most commonplace remark he replies with a
poetical flight of fancy."

However, she could not have been very seriously displeased, for she
took his arm again, and even leaned upon it rather more heavily than the
exigencies of the way actually required; which goes to prove that the
purest virtue is not insensible to pretty compliments, and that modesty
itself knows how to recompense delicate flattery.

Not far from the road they were travelling stood a small group of
thatched cottages--scarcely more than huts--whose inhabitants were all
afield at their work, excepting a poor