“What a pretty sister you have, Monsieur Hector!” she said.

“Listen to me, Babet—­since your daughter married, nobody has used the little room up stairs.  This young lady will occupy it for a few days; but you must keep it a secret from all the world—­you understand.”

“Don’t be afraid, Master Hector—­I am delighted to have so pretty a tenant for my daughter’s room.  The bed is rather small, but it is white and clean, and the sheets are fresh bleached.  They smell of the daisies yet.  You will sup with me, my fair young lady?” continued Babet, turning to Daphne; “my dishes are only pewter, but there is such a flavour in my simple fare—­my vegetables and fruits—­I can’t account for it, except it be the blessing of heaven.”

Babet spread a tablecloth like snow, and laid some dishes of fruit upon the table.  Hector took a tender farewell of Daphne, and kissed her hand at least a dozen times.  At last he tore himself away, with a promise that he would be with her at daybreak next morning.

CHAPTER V.

Daphne hardly slept all night in her chamber.  She was disturbed by many thoughts, and became alarmed at the step she had taken.  At earliest dawn she threw open her window.  The first sun-rays, reflected on a thousand dewdrops on the trees; the chirping of the birds, which already began their matin song; the joyous voice of the cock, which crowed in a most satisfactory and majestic manner in the paddock of her hostess; all these sights and sounds, to which she was so little accustomed, restored her serenity of mind once more.  She dwelt more on the attractions of her love—­so adventurous, so romantic.  Love’s ways, like those of wickedness, are strewed at first with roses, and Daphne was only at the entrance of the path.

While she was repelling from her heart the miserable fancies that had crowded on her at night, she all of a sudden perceived Hector by the whitethorn hedge.

“Welcome! welcome!” she cried, “you come to me with the sun.”

“How lovely you are this morning!” said Hector to her, with a look of admiration which there needed no physiognomist to discover was profoundly real.  She looked at herself when he spoke, and perceived she was but half dressed.  She threw herself on the foot of her bed.

“What am I to do?” she thought, “I can’t always wear a silk petticoat and a corset of white satin?”

She dressed herself notwithstanding, as last night, trusting to fate for the morrow.  Hector had brought her writing materials, and she composed a tender adieu to her mamma.

“Admirably done!” cried Hector; “I have a peasant here who will carry it to Madame Deshoulieres—­as for me, I shall go as usual to the Park d’Urtis at noon.  When they see me they will have no suspicion.  Your mamma goes away this evening, so that after to-day we shall have nothing to fear.”

The lovers breakfasted in the spirits which only youth and love can furnish.  Daphne had herself gone to the fountain with the broken pitcher of the cottage.  “You perceive, Hector,” she said, on seating herself at the table, “that I have all the qualifications of a peasant girl.”