“Look at my poor sheep,” said Daphne, throwing back the curls which by some means had fallen over her forehead—­“look at my poor sheep:  they are pointing out the road I ought to go.”

“On the contrary,” replied Hector, “the ungrateful wretches are going off very contentedly without you.”

“But I am terrified,” rejoined Daphne:  “how can I leave my mother in this way?  She will die of grief!”

“She will write a poem on it; and that will be all.”

“I will write to her that I was unable to resist my inclination for a monastic life, and that I have gone, without giving her notice, to the nunnery of St. Marie that we were speaking of last night.”

So said the pure and candid Bribri, hitting in a moment on the ingenious device; so true it is, that at the bottom of all hearts—­even the most amiable—­there is some small spark of mischief ready to explode when we least expect it.

“Yes—­dearest,” cried Hector, delighted at the thought, “you will write to her you have gone into the convent; she will go on to Avignon; we shall remain together beneath these cloudless skies, in this lovely country, happy as the birds, and free as the winds of the hill!”

Daphne thought she heard some brilliant quotation from her mother, and perhaps was, on that account, the more easily led by Hector.  After walking half an hour, with many a glance by the way, and many a smile, they arrived in front of the Cottage of the Vines—­the good old woman was hoeing peas in her garden—­she had left her house to the protection of an old grey cat, that was sleeping in the doorway.  Daphne was enraptured with the cottage.  It was beautifully retired, and was approached by a little grass walk bordered by elder-trees; and all was closed in by a pretty orchard, in which luxuriant vines clambered up the fine old pear-trees, and formed in festoons between the branching elms.  The Lignon formed a graceful curve and nearly encircled the paddock.

“At all events,” said Daphne, “if I am wretched here, my tears will fall into the stream I love.”

“But you will have no time to weep,” replied Hector, pressing her hand, “all our days will be happy here!  Look at that window half hidden in vine-leaves; ’tis there you will inhale the fragrance of the garden every morning when you awake; look at that pretty bower with the honeysuckle screen, ’tis there we will sit every evening, and talk over the joys of the day.  Our life will be bright and beautiful as a sunbeam among roses!”

They had gone inside the cottage.  It had certainly no great resemblance to a palace; but under these worn rafters—­within these simple walls—­by the side of that rustic chimney—­poverty itself would be delightful, in its tidiness and simplicity, if shared with one you loved.  Daphne was a little disconcerted at first by the rough uneven floor, and by the smell of the evening meal—­the toasted cheese, and the little oven where the loaf was baking; but, thanks to love—­the enchanter, who has the power of transforming to what shape he likes, and can shed his magic splendours over any thing—­Daphne found the cottage charming, and she was pleased with the floor, and the toasted cheese, and the oven!  The good old woman, on coming in from the garden, was astonished at the sight of Hector and Daphne.