One day in January, when he had been gone from home several days, she invited Rosa to a walk, and, finding her desirous to finish a letter to Madame Guirlande, she threw on her straw hat, and went out half dancing, as she was wont to do.  The fresh air was exhilarating, the birds were singing, and the woods were already beautified with every shade of glossy green, enlivened by vivid buds and leaflets of reddish brown.  She gathered here and there a pretty sprig, sometimes placing them in her hair, sometimes in her little black silk apron, coquettishly decorated with cherry-colored ribbons.  She stopped before a luxuriant wild myrtle, pulling at the branches, while she sang,

  “When the little hollow drum beats to bed,
  When the little fifer hangs his head,
  When is mute the Moorish flute—­”

Her song was suddenly interrupted by a clasp round the waist, and a warm kiss on the lips.

“O Gerald, you’ve come back!” she exclaimed.  “How glad Rosa will be!”

“And nobody else will be glad, I suppose?” rejoined he.  “Won’t you give me back my kiss, when I’ve been gone a whole week?”

“Certainly, mon bon frere,” she replied; and as he inclined his face toward her, she imprinted a slight kiss on his cheek.

“That’s not giving me back my kiss,” said he.  “I kissed your mouth, and you must kiss mine.”

“I will if you wish it,” she replied, suiting the action to the word.  “But you needn’t hold me so tight,” she added, as she tried to extricate herself.  Finding he did not release her, she looked up wonderingly in his face, then lowered her eyes, blushing crimson.  No one had ever looked at her so before.

“Come, don’t be coy, ma petite,” said he.

She slipped from him with sudden agility, and said somewhat sharply:  “Gerald, I don’t want to be always called petite; and I don’t want to be treated as if I were a child.  I am no longer a child.  I am fifteen.  I am a young lady.”

“So you are, and a very charming one,” rejoined he, giving her a playful tap on the cheek as he spoke.

“I am going to tell Rosa you have come,” said she; and she started on the run.

When they were all together in the cottage she tried not to seem constrained; but she succeeded so ill that Rosa would have noticed it if she had not been so absorbed in her own happiness.  Gerald was all affection to her, and full of playful raillery with Flora,—­which, however, failed to animate her as usual.

From that time a change came over the little maiden, and increased as the days passed on.  She spent much of her time in her own room; and when Rosa inquired why she deserted them so, she excused herself by saying she wanted to do a great deal of shell-work for Madame Guirlande, and that she needed so many boxes they would be in the way in the sitting-room.  Her passion for that work grew wonderfully, and might be accounted for by the fascination of perfect success; for her coronets and garlands and bouquets and baskets were arranged with so much lightness and elegance, and the different-colored shells were so tastefully combined, that they looked less like manufactured articles than like flowers that grew in the gardens of the Nereids.