blossom a bouquet on a slender thyrsus) bordered the towing-path and filled the air with perfume.  Here the meadows lay open to the water’s edge; a little farther on, they were shut off by a close rampart of poplars and willows whose leaves, already yellowed by autumn, were now fiery in the sunset.  Joyous bands of gnats, like wild little intoxicated maenads, circled and hummed about our heads as we drifted slowly on; while, far away and mellowed by distance, we heard the brazen music of the fair.

We were both silent.  Mueller pulled out a small sketch-book and made a rapid study of the scene—­the reach in the river; the wooded banks; the green flats traversed by long lines of stunted pollards; the church-tops and roofs of Courbevoie beyond.

Presently a soft voice, singing, broke upon the silence.  Mueller stopped involuntarily, pencil in hand.  I held my breath, and listened.  The tune was flowing and sweet; and as our boat drifted on, the words of the singer became audible.

     “O miroir ondoyant! 
     Je reve en te voyant
     Harmonie et lumiere,
       O ma riviere,
     O ma belle riviere!

     “On voit se reflechir
     Dans ses eaux les nuages;
     Elle semble dormir
     Entre les paturages

     Ou paissent les grands boeufs
     Et les grasses genisses. 
     Au patres amoureux
     Que ses bords sont propices!”

“A woman’s voice,” said Mueller.  “Dupont’s words and music.  She must be young and pretty ... where has she hidden herself?”

The unseen singer, meanwhile, went on with another verse.

     “Pres des iris du bord,
     Sous une berge haute,
     La carpe aux reflets d’or
     Ou le barbeau ressaute,
     Les goujons font le guet,
     L’Ablette qui scintille
     Fuit le dent du brochet;
     Au fond rampe l’anguille!

     “O miroir ondoyant! 
     Je reve en te voyant
     Harmonic et lumiere,
       O ma riviere,
     O ma belle riviere!”

“Look!” said Mueller.  “Do you not see them yonder—­two women under the trees?  By Jupiter! it’s ma tante and la petite Marie!”

Saying which, he flung himself upon his oars and began pulling vigorously towards the shore.

CHAPTER XXV.

THAT TERRIBLE MUeLLER.

La petite Marie broke off at the sound of our oars, and blushed a becoming rose-color.

“Will these ladies do us the honor of letting us row them back to Courbevoie?” said Mueller, running our boat close in against the sedges, and pulling off his hat as respectfully as if they were duchesses.

Mademoiselle Marie repeated the invitation to her aunt, who accepted it at once.

“Tres volontiers, tres volontiers, messieurs” she said, smiling and nodding.  “We have rambled out so far—­so far!  And I am not as young as I was forty years ago. Ah, mon Dieu! how my old bones ache!  Give me thy hand, Marie, and thank the gentlemen for their politeness.”