d a tomtit with a name very like
yours, though I don't remember exactly what it was.'

Albine did not smile. Her face was very pale, and there was a feverish
gleam in her eyes. A few drops of blood trickled from her hands. When
she had recovered her breath, she hastily exclaimed:

No! no! leave it alone. You will only stain your handkerchief. It is
nothing but a scratch. I didn't want to come by the road, as I should
have been seen--so I preferred coming along the bed of the torrent----
Is Serge there?'

Desiree did not feel at all shocked at hearing the girl pronounce
her brother's name thus familiarly and with an expression of subdued
passion. She simply replied that he was in the church hearing the
children say their catechism.

'You must not speak at all loudly,' she added, raising her finger to
her lips. 'Serge forbade me to talk loudly when he is catechising the
children, and we shall get into trouble if we don't keep quiet. Let us
go into the stable--shall we? We can talk better there.'

'I want to see Serge,' said Albine, simply.

Desiree cast a hasty glance at the church, and then whispered, 'Yes,
yes; Serge will be finely caught. Come with me. We will hide ourselves,
and keep quite quiet. We shall have some fine fun!'

She had picked up the herbage which had fallen from her apron, and
quitting the graveyard she stole back to the parsonage, telling Albine
to hide herself behind her and make herself as little as possible. As
they stealthily glided through the farmyard, they caught sight of La
Teuse, who was crossing over to the vestry, but she did not appear to
notice them.

'There! There!' said Desiree, quite delighted, as they stowed themselves
away in the stable; 'keep quiet, and no one will know that we are here.
There is some straw there for you to lie down upon.'

Albine seated herself on a truss of straw.

'And Serge?' she asked, persisting in her one fixed idea.

'Listen! You can hear his voice. When he claps his hands, it will be all
over, and the children will go away--Listen! he is telling them a tale.'

They could indeed just hear Abbe Mouret's voice, which was wafted to
them through the vestry doorway which La Teuse had doubtless left open.
It came to them like a solemn murmur, in which they could distinguish
the name of Jesus thrice repeated. Albine trembled. She sprang up as
though to hasten to that beloved voice whose caressing accents she knew
so well, but all sound of it suddenly