“Victorine!” he said.  Victorine started.  She was honestly very hungry, and had been so absorbed in eating her dinner she had not noticed Willan’s look.  She dropped her knife and sprang up.

“What is it, sir?” she said; “what shall I fetch?” Her instantaneous resumption of the serving-maid’s relation to him jarred on Willan at that second indescribably, and shut down like a floodgate on the words he was about to speak.

“Nothing, nothing,” said he.  “I was only going to say that thou must sleep this afternoon; thou art tired.”

“Nay, I am not tired,” said Victorine, petulantly.  “What is a matter of six leagues of a morning?  I could ride it again between this and sunset, and not be tired.”

But she was tired, and she did sleep, though she had not meant to do so when she threw herself on her bed, a little later; she had meant only to rest herself for a few minutes, and then in a fresh toilette return to Willan.  But she slept on and on until after sunset, and Willan wandered aimlessly about, wondering what had become of her.  Jeanne saw him, but forebore to take any note of his uneasiness.  She had looked in upon Victorine in her slumber, and was well content that it should be so.

“The girl will awake refreshed and rosy,” thought Jeanne; “and it will do no harm, but rather good, if he have missed her sorely all the afternoon.”

Supper was over, and the evening work all done when Victorine waked.  It was dusk.  Rubbing her eyes, she sprang up and went to the window.  Jeanne heard her steps, and coming to the foot of the stairs called:  “Thou need’st not to come down; all is done.  What shall I bring thee to eat?”

“Why didst thou not waken me?” replied Victorine, petulantly; “I meant not to sleep.”

“I thought the sleep was better,” replied her aunt.  “Thou didst look tired, and it suits no woman’s looks to be tired.”

Victorine was silent.  She saw Willan walking up and down under the pear-tree.  She leaned out of her window and moved one of the flower-pots.  Willan looked up; in a second more he had bounded up the staircase, and eagerly said:  “Art thou there?  Wilt thou never come down?”

Victorine was uncertain in her own mind what was the best thing to do next; so she replied evasively:  “Thou wert right, after all.  I did not feel myself tired, but I have slept until now.”

“Then thou art surely rested.  Canst thou not come and walk with me in the pear orchard?” said Willan.

“I fear me I may not do that after nightfall,” replied Victorine.  “My aunt would be angry.”

“She need not know,” replied the eager Willan.  “Thou canst come down by this stairway, and it is already near dark.”

Victorine laughed a little low laugh.  This pleased her.  “Yes,” she said, “I have often come down by, that post from my window; but truly, I fear I ought not to do it for thee.  What should I say to my aunt if she missed me?”