It was the time when the April sun smiles upon the meadow grass till it is very green and long enough to wave in the wind, and all amongst it the blue scilla flowers are like dewdrops reflecting the blue that hangs above the gnarled arms of the still leafless walnut trees.  The cottage where Celeste lived was out from the village, among the meadows, and to the most hidden side of it young Fernand came on the eve of the day on which she must leave it for ever.  Very far off the snow mountains had taken on their second flush of evening red before he came, and Celeste had grown weary waiting.

‘Good-bye,’ said Fernand.  He was always a somewhat stiff and formal young man, and to-night he was ill at ease.

‘But,’ cried Celeste—­and here she wept—­’you have made me love you.  I love no one in the world but you.’

‘You are foolish,’ said he.  ’It is, of course, a pity that we must part, but it cannot be helped.  You have no dowry, not even a small one.  It would be unthrifty for the son of an innkeeper to marry a girl without a sou.  My parents would not allow me to act so madly!’ and his manner added—­’nor would I be so foolish myself.’

Next day Celeste went up to the town, and went into the market-place to be hired as a servant.

This was the day of the spring hiring.  Many servants were wanting work, and they stood in the market-place.  All around were the old houses of the square; there was the church and the pastor’s house, and the house and office of the notary, and many other houses standing very close together, with high-peaked roofs and gable windows.  The sun shone down, lighting the roofs, throwing eaves and niches into strong shadow, gleaming upon yellow bowls and dishes, upon gay calicoes, upon cheese and sausages, on all bright things displayed on the open market-stalls, and upon the faces of the maid-servants who stood to be hired.  Many ladies of the town went about seeking servants:  among them was Madame Verine, and the Russian lady and Marie were with her.  When they came in front of Celeste they all stopped.

‘Ah, what eyes!’ said the Russian lady—­’what simple, innocent, trustful eyes!  In these days how rare!’

‘She is like a flower,’ said Marie.

Now, they quickly found out that Celeste knew very little about the work she would have to do; it was because of this she had not yet found a mistress.

‘I myself would delight to teach her,’ cried the Russian lady.

‘And I,’ cried Marie.  So Madame Verine took her home.

They taught Celeste many things.  Marie taught her to cook and to sew; the Russian lady taught her to write and to cipher, and was surprised at the progress she made, especially in writing.  Celeste was the more interesting to them because there was just a shade of sadness in her eye.  One day she told Marie why she was sad; it was the story of Fernand, how he had used her ill.

‘What a shame!’ cried Marie, when the brief facts were repeated.