a young sportsman had joined them, and how they had talked and laughed; and Madame d’Urtis had no doubt, from the description, that it was Hector de Langevy.  Amaranthe having added to the story, that she felt certain, in spite of Daphne’s declarations to the contrary, that he would meet them again, the seniors had determined to watch the result.  Hector would fain have made his escape; two ladies he might have faced, but four!—­and two of them above thirty years of age!  ’Twas too much; but his retreat was instantly cut off.  He stood at bay, blushed with all his might, but saluted the ladies as manfully as if he had been a page.  He received three most gracious curtsies in return—­only three; for Daphne wished to pass on without taking any notice—­which he considered a very favourable omen.  He did not know how to begin a conversation; and besides, he began to get confused; and his blushing increased to a most alarming extent—­and—­in short—­he held out his crook to Daphne.  As that young shepherdess had no crook of her own, and did not know how to refuse the one he offered, she took it, though her hand trenbled a little, and looked at Madame Deshoulieres.

“I broke your crook yesterday, fair Daphne,” said Hector, “but it is not lost.  I shall make a relic of it—­more precious than—­than—­“, but the bones of the particular saint he was about to name stuck in his throat and he was silent.

“Monsieur de Langevy,” said Madam d’Urtis kindly, “since you make such a point of aiding these shepherdesses in guarding the flock, I hope in an hour you will accompany them to the castle to lunch.”

“I’ll go with them wherever you allow me, madam,” said Hector.  (I wonder if the impudent fellow thought he had the permission of the young ones already.)

“Let that be settled then,” said the Duchess.  “I shall go and have the butter cooled, and the curds made—­a simple lunch, as befits the guests.”

“The fare of shepherds!” said Madame Deshoulieres, and immediately set out in search of a rhyme.

Daphne had walked slowly on, pressing the crook involuntarily to her heart, and arrived at the river side, impelled by a desire for solitude, without knowing why.  There are some mysterious influences to which damsels of seventeen seem particularly subject.  A lamb—­the gentlest of the flock, which had become accustomed to her caresses—­had followed her like a dog.  She passed her small hand lightly over the snowy neck of the favourite, and looked round to see what the party she had left were doing.  She was astonished to see her mother and Hector conversing, as if they had been acquainted for ages, while Madame d’Urtis and Amaranthe were running a race towards the park.  She sat down on the grassy bank, exactly opposite the oziers where she had seen Hector the preceding day.  When she felt she was quite alone, she ventured to look at the crook.  It was a branch of ash of good size, ornamented with a rustic bouquet