His cousin Clotilde had arrived the evening before, with an old aunt, to remain for the whole spring!  Monsieur de Langevy, who was not addicted to circumlocution in his mode of talk, told his son point-blank, that his cousin was a pretty girl, and what was more, a considerable heiress—­so that it was his duty—­his, Hector de Langevy—­the owner of a great name and a very small fortune, to marry the said cousin—­or if not, he must stand the consequences.  Hector, at the first intimation, had revolted indignantly against the inhuman proposal, and made many inaudible vows of undying constancy to his innocent and trusting Daphne; but by degrees, there is no denying that—­without thinking of the fortune—­he found various attractions in his cousin.  She was beautiful, graceful, winning.  She took his arm quite unceremoniously.  She had the most captivating small-talk in the world.  In short, if it had not been for Daphne, he would have been in love with her at once.  As he was obliged, of course, to escort his cousin in her walks—­or break with her altogether—­he did not go for two whole days to the Cottage of the Vines.  On the third day Clotilde begged him to take her to the banks of the Lignon, and as the request was made in presence of his father, he dared not refuse.  He contented himself—­by way of a relief to his conscience—­with breathing a sigh to Daphne.  The straightest road from the Chateau de Langevy to the Lignon, led past the Cottage of the Vines—­but Hector had no wish to go the straightest road.  He took a detour of nearly two miles, and led her almost to the Park D’Urtis.  While Clotilde amused herself by gathering the blossoms, and turning aside the pendent boughs of the willows that hung over the celebrated stream.  Hector looked over the scene of his first meeting with the shepherdesses, and sighed—­perhaps without knowing exactly wherefore.  He was suddenly startled by a scream—­Clotilde, in stretching too far forward, had missed her footing, and fallen upon the bank; she was within an inch of rolling into the river.  Hector rushed to her, raised her gently up, and begging her to lean her head upon his shoulder, assisted her up the bank.  “She’s like a naiad surprised by a shepherd”—­he thought—­and it is not improbable that at that moment he pressed his lips pretty close to the pale cheek that rested almost in his breast.  When he lifted up his head, he perceived, half hidden among the willows, on the other side of the river—­Daphne!  She had wandered to see once more the cradle of her love, to tread the meadow where, two days only before—­could it be only two days?—­she had been so happy.  What did she see?  What did she hear?  As her only reply to the kiss to which she had so unfortunately been a witness, she broke her crook in an excess of indignation.  But it was too much to bear.  She fell upon the bank, and uttered a plaintive cry.  At that cry—­at sight of his poor Daphne fainting upon the grass, he rushed like a madman across the stream, buoyant with love and despair.  He ran to his insensate shepherdess, regardless of the exclamations of the fair Clotilde, and raised her in his trembling arms.