hair, a bright ribbon, or some such
bagatelle; but there was something youthful and fresh about her. The
dance, which she loved for itself as an amusing exercise, seemed to
inspire her with a frolicsome gayety. Once launched on the floor it
seemed to me she allowed herself more liberty than usual, that there was
an unusual familiarity. I did not dance, being still in mourning, but I
managed to keep near her, and seeing her in such good humor, I was often
tempted to confess my love.

But for some strange reason, whenever I thought of it, I was seized with
an irresistible feeling of fear; the idea of an avowal was enough
to render me serious in the midst of gayety. I conceived the idea of
writing to her, but burned the letters before they were half finished.

That evening I dined with her, and looked about me at the many evidences
of a tranquil life; I thought of the quiet life that I was leading, of
my happiness since I had known her, and said to myself: "Why ask for
more? Does not this suffice? Who knows, perhaps God has nothing more for
you? If I should tell her that I love her, what would happen? Perhaps
she would forbid me the pleasure of seeing her. Would I, in speaking the
words, make her happier than she is to-day? Would I be happier myself?"

I was leaning on the piano, and as I indulged in these reflections
sadness took possession of me. Night was coming on and she lighted a
candle; while returning to her seat she noticed a tear in my eye.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

I turned aside my head.

I sought an excuse, but could find none; I was afraid to meet her
glance. I arose and stepped to the window. The air was balmy, the moon
was rising beyond those lindens where I had first met her. I fell into
a profound revery; I even forgot that she was present and, extending my
arms toward heaven, a sob welled up from my heart.

She arose and stood behind me.

"What is it?" she again asked.

I replied that the sight of that valley stretching out beneath us had
recalled my father's death; I took leave of her and went out.

Why I decided to silence my love I can not say. Nevertheless, instead of
returning home, I began to wander about the woods like a fool. Whenever
I found a bench I sat down only to rise precipitately. Toward midnight
I approached Madame Pierson's house; she was at the window. Seeing
her there I began to tremble and tried to retrace my steps, but I was
fascinated; I advanced gently and sadl