The two young girls did not know what to say to this proposition.  Daphne at last replied—­

“Our flock is very small—­and quite ill enough attended to as it is.”

“What joy for me to become Daphnis—­to sing to you, and gather roses, and twine them in your hair!”

“Let us say no more,” interrupted Amaranthe, a little disquieted at the sudden ardour of Daphnis; “the sun is going down:  we must return to the park.  Adieu,” she added, rising to go away.

“Adieu, Daphnis!” murmured the tender Daphne, confused and blushing.

Hector did not dare to follow them.  He stood for a quarter of an hour with his eyes fixed first on them, and then on the door of the park.  His heart beat violently, his whole soul pursued the steps of the shepherdesses.

“‘Adieu, Daphnis,’ the lovely Daphne said to me.  I hear her sweet voice still!  How beautiful she is! how beautiful they are, both—­Amaranthe is more graceful, but Daphne is more winning—­bright eyes—­white hands! sweet smiles! and the delicious dress, so simple, yet so captivating! the white corset that I could not venture to look at—­the gown of silk that couldn’t hide the points of the charming little feet.  ’Tis witchery—­enchantment—­Venus and Diana—­I shall inevitably go mad.  Ah, cousin! you ought to have come long ago, and all this might never have occurred.”

The sun had sunk behind a bed of clouds—­the nightingale began its song, and the fresh green leaves rustled beneath the mild breath of the evening breeze.  The bee hummed joyously on its homeward way, loaded with the sweets of the spring flowers.  Down in the valley, the voice of the hinds driving their herds to rest, increased the rustic concert; the river rippled on beneath the mysterious shade of old fantastic trees, and the air was filled with soft noises, and rich perfumes, and the voice of birds.  There was no room in Hector’s heart for all these natural enjoyments.  “To-morrow,” he said, kissing the broken crook—­“I will come back again to-morrow.”

CHAPTER III.

Early in the following morning, Hector wandered along the banks of the Lignon, with a fresh-cut crook in his hand.  He looked to the door of the Park d’Urtis, expecting every moment to see the glorious apparitions of the day before.  And at stroke of noon, a lamb rushing through the gate, careered along the meadow, and the eleven others ran gayly after it, amidst a peal of musical laughter from Amaranthe.  Daphne did not laugh.

The moment she crossed the threshold, she glanced stealthily towards the river.  “I thought so,” she murmured; “Daphnis has come back.”  And Daphnis, in a transport of joy, was hurrying to the shepherdesses, when he was suddenly interrupted by Madame Deshoulieres and the Duchess d’Urtis.  When the sisters had returned, on the evening before, Amaranthe, to Daphne’s great discomfiture, had told word for word all that had occurred; how that