of a
servant while they walked home by way of the fields to gather the last
flowers of autumn, which Amelie said lingered longest in the deep swales
of the Lairet.

A walk in the golden sunshine with Amelie alone amid the quiet fields,
free to speak his love, and she to hear him and be glad, was a pleasure
Pierre had dreamt of but never enjoyed since the blessed night when they
plighted their troth to each other by the lake of Tilly.

The betrothal of Pierre and Amelie had been accepted by their friends on
both sides as a most fitting and desirable match, but the manners of
the age with respect to the unmarried did not admit of that freedom in
society which prevails at the present day.

They had seldom met save in the presence of others, and except for a
few chance but blissful moments, Pierre had not been favored with the
company all to himself of his betrothed.

Amelie was not unmindful of that when she gave a willing consent to-day
to walk with him along the banks of the Lairet, under the shady elms,
birches, and old thorns that overhung the path by the little stream.

"Pierre," said she smiling, "our horses are gone and I must now walk
home with you, right or wrong. My old mistress in the Convent would
shake her head if she heard of it, but I care not who blames me to-day,
if you do not, Pierre!"

"Who can blame you, darling? What you do is ever wisest and best in my
eyes, except one thing, which I will confess now that you are my own, I
cannot account for--"

"I had hoped, Pierre, there was no exception to your admiration; you
are taking off my angel's wings already, and leaving me a mere woman!"
replied she merrily.

"It is a woman I want you to be, darling, a woman not faultless, but
human as myself, a wife to hold to me and love me despite my faults, not
an angel too bright and too perfect to be my other self."

"Dear Pierre," said she, pressing his arm, "I will be that woman to you,
full enough of faults to satisfy you. An angel I am not and cannot be,
nor wish to be until we go together to the spirit-land. I am so glad I
have a fault for which you can blame me, if it makes you love me better.
Indeed I own to many, but what is that one fault, Pierre, which you
cannot account for?"

"That you should have taken a rough soldier like me, Amelie! That one
so fair and perfect in all the graces of womanhood, with the world to
choose from, should have permitted Pierre Philibert to win her loving
heart of