satisfaction.

The twilight was very short, and the sky soon became came dark and
studded with stars. Lastique got out the oars, and Jeanne and the
vicomte sat side by side watching the trembling, phosphorescent glimmer
behind the boat and feeling a keen enjoyment even in breathing the cool
night air. The vicomte's fingers were resting against Jeanne's hand
which was lying on the seat, and she did not draw it away, the slight
contact making her feel happy and yet confused.

When she went to her room that evening Jeanne felt so moved that the
least thing would have made her cry. She looked at the clock and fancied
that the little bee throbbed like a friendly heart; she thought of how
it would be the silent witness of her whole life, how it would accompany
all her joys and sorrows with its quick, regular beat, and she stopped
the gilded insect to drop a kiss upon its wings. She could have kissed
anything, no matter what, and suddenly remembering an old doll she had
hidden away in the bottom of a drawer, she got it out and found as much
joy in seeing it again as if it had been an old well-loved friend.
Pressing it to her bosom she covered its painted cheeks and flaxen hair
with warm kisses, then, still holding it in her arms, she began to
think.

Was HE the husband referred to by so many inward voices, and was it by a
supremely-kind Providence that he was thus sent into her life? Was he
really the being created for her, to whom her whole existence would be
devoted? Were he and she really predestined to unite their hearts and so
beget Love? She did not yet experience those tumultuous feelings, those
wild raptures, that profound stirring of her whole soul, which she
believed to be love; still she thought she was beginning to love him,
for sometimes she felt her senses fail her when she thought of him and
she always was thinking of him. Her heart throbbed in his presence, her
color came and went when she met his glance, and the sound of his voice
sent a thrill through her. That night she hardly slept at all.

Each day her longing for love became greater. She was always consulting
the marguerites, or the clouds, or tossing a coin in the air to see
whether she was loved or not.

One evening her father said to her:

"Make yourself look very pretty to-morrow morning, Jeanne."

"Why, papa?" she asked.

"That's a secret," replied the baron.

When she came down the next morning, looking fresh and bright in a light
summer