"CLAIRE."

Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned a large straw hat for the first
days of August were warm and glorious--and went herself to drop it in the
little box from which the postman collected the mail from the chateau
every morning.

It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in the road. She paused a
moment to look at the trees by the roadside, at the neighboring meadows
sleeping in the bright sunlight. Over yonder the reapers were gathering
the last sheaves. Farther on they were ploughing. But all the melancholy
of the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girl was concerned, so
delighted was she at the thought of seeing her friend once more.

No breeze came from the hills in the distance, no voice from the trees,
to warn her by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending that fatal
letter. And immediately upon her return she gave her attention to the
preparation of a pretty bedroom for Sidonie adjoining her own.

The letter did its errand faithfully. From the little green,
vine-embowered gate of the chateau it found its way to Paris, and arrived
that same evening, with its Savigny postmark and impregnated with the
odor of the country, at the fifth-floor apartment on the Rue de Braque.

What an event that was! They read it again and again; and for a whole
week, until Sidonie's departure, it lay on the mantel-shelf beside Madame
Chebe's treasures, the clock under a glass globe and the Empire cups. To
Sidonie it was like a wonderful romance filled with tales of enchantment
and promises, which she read without opening it, merely by gazing at the
white envelope whereon Claire Fromont's monogram was engraved in relief.

Little she thought of marriage now. The important question was, What
clothes should she wear at the chateau? She must give her whole mind to
that, to cutting and planning, trying on dresses, devising new ways of
arranging her hair. Poor Frantz! How heavy his heart was made by these
preparations! That visit to Savigny, which he had tried vainly to oppose,
would cause a still further postponement of their wedding, which
Sidonie-why, he did not know--persisted in putting off from day to day.
He could not go to see her; and when she was once there, in the midst of
festivities and pleasures, who could say how long she would remain?

The lover in his despair always went to the Delobelles to confide his
sorrows, but he never noticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as he
entered, t