of the sound. I must bide the beast's
time now. He hath made time for me many a day, and I do assure you, good
Benoit, I love him as if he were my brother."

"Ay," replied the ostler; "so thought I when I saw thee bent under thy
saddle-bags and leading the horse by the rein. It's an evil man likes
not his beast. We say in Normandy, sir,--

"'Evil master to good beast,
Serve him ill at every feast!'"

"So he deserves," replied Willan, heartily; and in his heart he added,
"I hope I shall not get my deserts."

Benoit led the poor horse away toward the stables, and Willan entered
the house. No one was to be seen. Benoit had forgotten to tell him that
no one was at home except Victorine. It was a market-day at St. Urban's;
and Victor and Jeanne had gone for the day, and would not be back till
late in the evening.

Willan roamed on from room to room,--through the bar-room, the
living-room, the kitchen; all were empty, silent. As he retraced his
steps he stopped for a second at the foot of the stairs which led from
the living-room to the narrow passage-way overhead.

Victorine was in her aunt's room, and heard the steps. "Who is there?"
she called. Willan recognized her voice; he considered a second what he
should reply.

"Benoit! is it thou?" Victorine called again impatiently; and the next
minute she bounded down the stairway, crying, "Why dost thou terrify me
so, thou bad Benoit, not answering me when I--" She stopped, face to
face with Willan Blaycke, and gave a cry of honest surprise.

"Ah! but is it really thou?" she said, the rosy color mounting all over
her face as she recollected how she was attired. She had been asleep
all the warm afternoon, and had on only a white petticoat and a short
gown of figured stuff, red and white. Her hair was falling over her
shoulders. Willan's heart gave a bound as he looked at her. Before he
had fairly seen her, she had turned to fly.

"Yes, it is I,--it is I," he called after her. "Wilt thou not come
back?"

"Nay," answered Victorine, from the upper stair; "that I may not do, for
the house is alone." Victorine was herself now, and was wise enough not
to go quite out of sight. She looked entrancing between the dark wooden
balustrades, one slender hand holding to them, and the other catching up
part of her hair. "When my aunt returns, if she bids me to wait at
supper I shall see thee." And Victorine was gone.

"Then sing for me at thy window," entreated Willan.

"I k