“Very well!”—­he said, and walked into the room.  Daphne uttered a scream of terror, and her tears redoubled.

“There is nothing to cry about,” said M. de Langevy; “but as for you, young man, you must let me into the secret, if you please.”

“I have nothing to tell you,” said Hector, in a determined tone.

Daphne, who had leant for support on his shoulder, fell senseless on her chair.

“Father,” said Hector, bending over her, “you perceive that this is no place for you.”

“Nor for you, either,” said the old man in a rage.  “What do you mean by such folly?  Go home this instant, sir, or you shall never enter my door again.”

But Hector made no reply.  His whole attention was bestowed on Daphne.

“I ask you again, sir,” said the father, still more angry at his son’s neglect.  “Think well on what you do.”

“I have thought, sir,” replied Hector, raising the head of the still senseless Daphne.  “You may shut your door for ever.”

“None of your impudence, jackanapes.  Will you come home with me now, or stay here?”

“If I go with you, sir,” said Hector, “it will be to show my respect to you as my father, but I must tell you that I love Mademoiselle Deshoulieres, and no one else.  We are engaged, and only death shall part us.”

“Deshoulieres—­Deshoulieres,” said the Baron, “I’ve heard that name before.  I knew a Colonel Deshoulieres in the campaigns of Flanders; a gallant fellow, with a beautiful wife, a number of wounds, many medals, but not a sou.  Are you coming, sir?”

Daphne motioned him to go, and Hector followed his father in silence.  He was not without hopes of gaining his permission to love his poor Daphne as much as he chose.  M. de Langevy bowed to her as he went out of the room; and wishing Babet a good appetite as he passed the kitchen door, commenced a sermon for the edification of poor Hector, which lasted all the way.  The only attention Hector paid to it was to turn round at every pause, and take a look at the little casement window.

When Daphne saw him disappear among the woods at the side of the road, she sighed; and while the tears rolled down her cheek, she said, “Adieu, adieu!  I shall never see him more!”

She looked sadly round the little apartment—­now so desolate; she gathered one of the roses that clustered round the window, and scattered the leaves one by one, and watched them as they were wafted away by the breeze.

“Even so will I do with my love,” said the poetical shepherdess; “I will scatter it on the winds of death.”

“Adieu,” she said, embracing poor old Babet; “I am going back to the place I left so sillily.  If you see Hector again, tell him I loved him; but that he must forget me, as I forget the world, and myself.”

As she said these words, she grew pale and staggered, but she recovered by an effort, and walked away on the path that led to the Chateau d’Urtis.  When she came to the meadow, she saw at her feet the crook she had broken in the morning.  She lifted it, and took it with her as the only memorial of Hector.  The sun was sinking slowly, and Daphne knelt down and said a prayer, pressing the crook to her bosom—­poor Daphne!