that human beings could do to vex her, rather
than encounter the tricks and temptations of
those unearthly ones,—and then she slept.

Light to see, however, is nearly allied to
courage to dare; and when Alix arose at early
dawn, her perturbations and tremblings had
vanished, and her midnight decision was
overturned by the impulse of the morning. She
dressed herself, quickly, but carefully, in her
most becoming attire; and a very fine specimen
of the women of the province she looked
—noted though they are for the regal style
of their beauty—when equipped in her
plaited petticoat; her bright fichu, not
pinned tightly down, but crossing the
bosom in graceful folds, and fastened in
a knot at the back; her thick glossy bands of
black hair contrasting well with the rich
glow of her cheek, and with the Madras silk
handkerchief which covered without
concealing the luxuriance of her long hair.
Holding in her hand her large market-basket,
not unlike in shape to a coal-scuttle or a
gipsey bonnet, with a majestic rather than
a tripping step, Alix began her walk; looking
more like one of the Roman matrons from
whom tradition tells that her race was
descended than a poor peasant girl.

As she reached the turn from the
highroad to the wood, she quickened her steps,
and resolutely took the forest path; while, as
if determined to prove to herself that she
was not afraid, she ever and anon gave forth
a snatch of song, in a voice as clear and shrill
as that of the birds twittering in the branches
overhead, to join the common hymn of
praise with which the denizens of earth and
sky salute the new-born day.

The morning was unusually sultry and
oppressive, although the sun was but newly
risen. Alix felt herself overcome with
fatigue when scarcely half-way through the
forest. She was so fatigued that she found it
necessary to sit down; but, just as she had
selected a seat in a quiet shady nook which
promised to be a pleasant resting-place, she
discovered that it abutted closely on the
opening to one of the grottos that tradition
had marked out as the former habitation of
hermits or saints whose spirits were still
believed to haunt their old dwelling-places.
She no sooner became aware of the grotto's
vicinity than she rose hastily; and, snatching
up her basket, set off down one of the alleys
of the forest, without taking time to consider
where she was going; when forced to pause
to recover her breath, she found herself in a
spot she had never seen before, but one so
lovely that she looked around with surprise
and admiration.

It was a little glade, in form almost an
amphitheatre, carpeted with turf as soft and
elastic as velvet; its bright green, enamelled
with flowers; and on each petal, each tiny
blade of grass, dew-drops were sparkling like
tears of happiness, in welcome to the sun's
returning rays. Around this little circle,
mighty old trees, gnarled and rugged, the
fathers of the forest, were so regularly
ranged as to seem the work of art rather
than of nature, and this impression was
strengthened by the avenue-like alley that
spread from it towards the north.
Immediately opposite to this opening, on the
southern side of the amphitheatre, rose a
rampart of grey rocks, marbled with golden
veins, from whose hoary side sprung forth the
rock rose or pink cystus, and under whose
moist shade the blue aster, one of the fairest
of earth's stars, flourished luxuriantly.
As Alix's eye fell on the trees, and grass, and
flowers, she set her basket down carefully
at the foot of a fine old oak, and, forgetting
fatigue, heat, and superstitious terrors, busied
herself in gathering the dew-gemmed flowers,
until her apron was quite full.

Then, seating herself under the oak, she
began with pretty fastidiousness to choose
the most perfect of her treasures to arrange
into a bouquet for her bosom, and one for her
hair. While thus engaged she half-chanted,
half-recited her Salve Regina:—

Hail to the Queen who reigns above,
Mother of Clemency and Love!
We, from this wretched world of tears
Send sighs and groans unto thine ears.
Oh, thou sweet advocate, bestow
One pitying look on us below!

The hymn and toilet were concluded
together; and then, but not till then, Alix
remembered that there was a market at
Maillot, at which she must be present,
instead of spending the day in such joyous
idleness. She sighed and wished she were a
lady—the young lady of Beauregard, of
whose marriage Monsieur Reboul had told
her such fine things—and, as she thought thus,
association of ideas awoke the recollection
that this day was the twenty-third of June,
the vigil of St. John; a season said to be very
fatal to the females of the house of Beauregard.
She shuddered as the terrors of that tradition
recurred to her memory, and wished she were
not alone in the haunted forest on so unlucky
a day. Many and strange were the superstitions
she had heard regarding St. John's Eve,
and many the observances of which she had
been the terrified witness; but, that which
had always affected her imagination the most,
was the ancient belief that any one who has
courage to hold a lonely vigil in a church on
St. John's Eve, beholds passing in
procession all those who are fated to die
within the year. It was with this superstition
that the legend of Beauregard was associated;
for, it was said that in old times a certain
lady of the family had, for reasons of her
own—bad reasons of course—held such a vigil,
had seen her own spirit among the doomed,
and had indeed died that year. Tradition
further averred, that since then, the twenty-third
of June had been always more or less
fatal to the females of her house; and as