his footfall on the echoing road long before his dark, slim figure showed against the pale ground.  And he found her there, erect under the stars, smiling and healthy, a picture of all that is good.  The milky whiteness of her skin was accentuated by her beautiful black hair, caught up in a huge coil, and her big black eyes, which beamed with all the gentleness of spouse and mother.  Her straight brow, her nose, her mouth, her chin so boldly, purely rounded, her cheeks which glowed like savory fruit, her delightful little ears—­the whole of her face, full of love and tenderness, bespoke beauty in full health, the gayety which comes from the accomplishment of duty, and the serene conviction that by loving life she would live as she ought to live.

“What! so you’ve come then!” Mathieu exclaimed, as soon as he was near her.  “But I begged you not to come out so late.  Are you not afraid at being alone on the roads at this time of night?”

She began to laugh.  “Afraid,” said she, “when the night is so mild and healthful?  Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me here to kiss you ten minutes sooner?”

Those simple words brought tears to Mathieu’s eyes.  All the murkiness, all the shame through which he had passed in Paris horrified him.  He tenderly took his wife in his arms, and they exchanged the closest, the most human of kisses amid the quiet of the slumbering fields.  After the scorching pavement of Paris, after the eager struggling of the day and the degrading spectacles of the night, how reposeful was that far-spreading silence, that faint bluish radiance, that endless unrolling of plains, steeped in refreshing gloom and dreaming of fructification by the morrow’s sun!  And what suggestions of health, and rectitude, and felicity rose from productive Nature, who fell asleep beneath the dew of night solely that she might reawaken in triumph, ever and ever rejuvenated by life’s torrent, which streams even through the dust of her paths.

Mathieu slowly seated Marianne on the low broad parapet once more.  He kept her near his heart; it was a halt full of affection, which neither could forego, in presence of the universal peace that came to them from the stars, and the waters, and the woods, and the endless fields.

“What a splendid night!” murmured Mathieu.  “How beautiful and how pleasant to live in it!”

Then, after a moment’s rapture, during which they both heard their hearts beating, he began to tell her of his day.  She questioned him with loving interest, and he answered, happy at having to tell her no lie.

“No, the Beauchenes cannot come here on Sunday.  Constance never cared much for us, as you well know.  Their boy Maurice is suffering in the legs; Dr. Boutan was there, and the question of children was discussed again.  I will tell you all about that.  On the other hand, the Moranges have promised to come.  You can’t have an idea of the delight and vanity they displayed in showing me their new flat.  What