But a man must be very cynical, or very blase, or wholly possessed by some other uncomfortable quality, who does not feel much cheered and invigorated by morning sunbeams pouring into a strange bed-room, and awakening him to new scenes and unexperienced sensations.  Horace Graham was neither cynical nor blase; on the contrary, he was a pleasant-tempered, fresh-hearted lad of twenty or thereabouts, who only three weeks before had made his first acquaintance with French gendarmes, and for the first time had heard children shouting to each other in a foreign tongue along white-walled, sunshiny, foreign streets.  Three weeks touring in Germany had only served to arouse in him a passion for travelling and seeing, for new places and peoples and scenes, that in all his life, perhaps, would not be satiated; everything was new to him, everything amused him; and so it happened that, while he was dressing and studying from his window the view that had been only obscurely hinted at in the darkness of night before, a sudden desire came over him to remain where he was for that day, climb the hills that rose before him, and see what manner of country lay beyond.

It was still early when, after breakfasting by himself in the salle-a-manger, he found his way into the garden; no one was stirring, it seemed deserted; he wandered along the gravel paths, trod down the tall grass as he crossed the lawn, and arrived at the confines of the little domain.  On two sides it was bounded by a narrow stream, separating it from the road beyond; at the angle of the garden the shallow, trickling water widened into a little fall crossed by a few planks; there were trees and bushes on each side, and the grassy garden bank sloped down to the stream.  It was very green, and peaceful and dewy.  Horace stood still for a minute looking at the flickering lights and shadows, and watching the dash and current of the water.

“Fi donc, Mademoiselle, tu n’es pas raisonnable,” cries a sweet shrill little voice close to him, “tu es vraiment insupportable aujourd’hui.”

He turned round and saw a child between five and six years old, dressed in a shabby little merino frock and white pinafore, standing with her back towards him, and holding out a doll at arm’s length, its turned-out pink leather toes just touching the ground.

“Veux-tu bien etre sage?” continues the small monitress with much severity, “encore une fois, un, deux, trois!” and she made a little dancing-step backwards; then with an air of encouragement, “Allons, mon amie, du courage! We must be perfect in our steps for this evening, for you know, Sophie, if you refuse to dance, M. le Prince will be in despair, and M. le Baron will put his hand on his heart and cry, ’Alas, mademoiselle, you have no pity, and my heart is desolated!’ "

“Madelon!” cries a voice through the trees in the distance.

“Me voici, papa!” she answered, stopping the dancing-lesson and looking round.  As she did so she caught sight of Horace, and gazed up in his face with a child’s deliberate stare.  She had great brown eyes, a little round fair face, and light hair curling all over her head.  She looked up at him quite fearlessly for a moment, and then darted away, dashing against somebody who was coming along the path, and disappeared.