of which, with the old fumes of bad stale
tobacco, were little calculated to soothe the
nerves that had been stung and fretted and
ruffled in the green, cool, perfumed chestnut
wood.

Next day all would be joy and hope again.
Back once more to the sylvan temple, where
I hoped to meet the shy goddess. An hour,
—two—would pass, and then she floated to
and fro across that bit of sunshine, gathering
a flower here; tying one up there; watering,
trimming, dipping further on; wondering,
as she has since told me, and as I little
guessed then, if I were there in the wood
watching her. Presently, with a basket on
her arm, she would turn into the shady
walk; nearer and nearer came her footstep;
fuller and fuller throbbed my heart; then,
with her hand on the wicket, she would
pause; had she changed her mind? would
she go back? and at that thought my soul so
yearned for her, that it seemed the influence
must act to draw her towards me; and sometimes
I almost thought it did so; as, opening
the gate, she stepped into the wood; and
slowly, with downcast eyes, roved to and
fro, in search, as I believed, of the yellow
mushrooms that grow in the chestnut woods
in France.

A few moments more, and we were together,
she still pursuing her search, though many a
mushroom was passed, many another trodden
on; I, pacing by her side, speaking low,
and at intervals, while she sometimes answered
without looking up, sometimes gave
me a glance of those miraculous eyes in lieu
of other answer; till at last, youth and love,
and solitude encouraging, the hand that at
first dared not to touch hers, wound round
her waist, the lips that trembled to pronounce
her name, pressed hers unforbidden.

And now, shall I tell the truth?—a truth
that many and many a time since has not
only stung me with remorse, but with the
thought, that perhaps—Well, well, that
may or may not have been. But to my con-
fession:—

Young as I was, Suzanne was not the first
woman I fancied I had loved; and though
the feeling I had for her was widely different
from that with which I had regarded
others, still it was not then pure, and deep,
and fervent as it ought to have been. At
first, much as I loved her, much as I desired
to obtain her love, I had no thought of indissolubly
uniting my destiny to hers; I had
no idea of marriage. I contented myself with
letting things run their course, whatever
they might tend to; with taking no thought,
and making no engagement for the future.

At last our meetings in the châtaigneraie
became things of daily occurrence; and
we needed no subterfuges of sketch-book and
mushroom-baskets to colour them. Sweet,
pure, darling Suzanne! Who, in her position,
at her age, could have withstood the dangers
of the situation as she did? She loved me
with all the depth and warmth of a profound
and passionate nature; yet in the midst of
her abandon, there was a purity, a starting,
instinctive shyness—a turning of the flank of
danger, as it were, while appearing unconscious
of its vicinity—that at once captivated
and repelled me. And days drew on to weeks,
and still our relative positions remained unaltered.

One day we were in the châtaigneraie
together, strolling side by side, her hand in
mine, when the unusual sound of footsteps
rustling 'mid the last year's leaves, startled
us. We turned round, and at a little distance
beheld her father.

He was a man still in the prime of life. But
indifferent health, and a ceaseless activity in
the arduous duties of his calling, gave to his
spare figure and fine face a worn, and prematurely
aged look. I shall never forget him,
as after a moment's pause he advanced and
confronted us; the veins in his bare temples
swollen and throbbing with the emotion he
sought to control, his face pale and rigid, and
his lips compressed.

There was a dead silence for some seconds.
Then his kindling eye flashed on his daughter,
and pointing to the house, he said in a low,
stern voice: " Go in, Suzanne." She went
without a word.

"And thus, young man," he said, when she
was out of hearing, "thus, for the gratification
of a passing fancy, to kill the time you
know not how to dispose of, you blot an
honest and hitherto stainless name. You
break a father's heart; you turn from her
God—you destroy body and soul—a mere
child, motherless and unprotected. I will
not tell you what Suzanne has been to me;
how I have reared her, worked, hoped, prayed
for her, loved and trusted her. All these
things are, doubtless, tame and commonplace
and contemptible to you. But if you had no
fear of God or consideration for man before
your eyes, could you not have had a little
feeling, a little pity, an atom of respect for a
father and daughter situated as you know
us to be? Knowing, moreover, that it is not
in the heart or in the hand of the Minister
of God to avenge the wrong and shame done
him by the means other dishonoured fathers
adopt?"

Utterly abashed and conscience-stricken, I
strove to explain; but my emotion, and the
sudden difficulty that came over me in expressing
myself adequately in a foreign language
—fluently as, under ordinary circumstances
I spoke it—were little calculated to
reassure him.

"No," he said, " I know all. Your daily
meetings, your prolonged interviews, a certain
embarrassment I have lately noticed in my
child, hitherto so frank and fearless; her
altered looks and manner—even note the
demeanour of both when I surprised you—
what can I conclude from such indications?"