could be, and while he lingered there, whistling and beating time with a chisel, the latter suddenly slipped out of his hand.  It fell into the Jas-Meiffren, striking the curb of the well, and then bounding a few feet from the wall.  Silvere looked at it, leaning forward and hesitating to get over.  But the peasant-girl must have been watching the young man askance, for she jumped up without saying anything, picked up the chisel, and handed it to Silvere, who then perceived that she was a mere child.  He was surprised and rather intimidated.  The young girl raised herself towards him in the red glare of the sunset.  The wall at this spot was low, but nevertheless too high for her to reach him.  So he bent low over the coping, while she still raised herself on tiptoes.  They did not speak, but looked at each other with an air of smiling confusion.  The young man would indeed have liked to keep the girl in that position.  She turned to him a charming head, with handsome black eyes, and red lips, which quite astonished and stirred him.  He had never before seen a girl so near; he had not known that lips and eyes could be so pleasant to look at.  Everything about the girl seemed to possess a strange fascination for him—­her coloured neckerchief, her white bodice, her blue cotton skirt hanging from braces which stretched with the motion of her shoulders.  Then his glance glided along the arm which was handing him the tool; as far as the elbow this arm was of a golden brown, as though clothed with sun-burn; but higher up, in the shadow of the tucked-up sleeve, Silvere perceived a bare, milk-white roundness.  At this he felt confused; however, he leant further over, and at last managed to grasp the chisel.  The little peasant-girl was becoming embarrassed.  Still they remained there, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned face, and the lad half reclining on the coping of the wall.  They could not part from each other.  So far they had not exchanged a word, and Silvere even forgot to say, “Thank you.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marie,” replied the peasant-girl; “but everybody calls me Miette.”

Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in her turn:  “And yours?”

“My name is Silvere,” the young workman replied.

A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently to the music of their names.

“I’m fifteen years old,” resumed Silvere.  “And you?”

“I!” said Miette; “oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints’ Day.”

The young workman made a gesture of surprise.  “Ah! really!” he said, laughing, “and to think I took you for a woman!  You’ve such big arms.”