called to a fisherman at work some couple of hundred feet away. “Léon, Léon!” she cried, breathlessly.

He turned, nodded, and began deliberately to reel his line. Before he had finished his wife was by his side.

“Léon—Raoul! Have you seen Raoul!”

“I? No. Why should I have seen him?”

“Because he got out of the carriage and made his way down to the river—to the river—alone! Oh, Léon!”

“He will be all right; he has sense enough,” said her husband, easily. “What was that little imbecile Jean about?”

“Dear, I can’t blame him. What was he to do? He has been ordered never to leave the carriage.”

“Do? He might have done something. It is ridiculous to suppose that he could not have prevented it. Who gave him those orders?”

“Your mother.”

“Oh, well, of course it wouldn’t do for the pony to run wild. However, don’t worry yourself; depend upon it, it’s all right.” He began to hum an air. “I believe, after all, I will go with you, if only to keep you quiet. And besides the pleasure of seeing you, I am not sorry that you have come. Fishing is horribly stupid work all by one’s self. I was beginning to think I was sick of it, and from the relief I feel, I am sure. Stop! Where are you going?”

“Dear Léon, I am so uneasy! You can follow.”

“Heartless woman! But I don’t let you off so quietly. Haven’t I told you that my own society fatigues me? haven’t I welcomed your coming? and yet you have the unkindness to propose to leave me! Come, be reasonable. Help me with this detestable rod, which your fingers can manage twice as well as mine, and then we go together.”

But to his amazement his wife only turned her head.

“I cannot stay, Léon; I am too anxious. Come as quickly as you can.”

He stared after her as she hastened away, his face losing some of its easy expression. Dark, like the De Beaudrillarts, his features were small, and their lines rounded. He was of medium height, and broadly made about the shoulders; his eyes were brown, and the eyebrows straight. He laughed readily, yet occasionally a certain haggard look, curiously at variance with the roundness of his cheek, crept over his face and aged it. Now, after a momentary hesitation, he flung his rod and basket on the ground and ran after his wife.

“Women must always have their own way at once, of course,” he said, with a touch of petulance like a child’s. “You might have waited a minute.”

“Ah, forgive me, Léon! If it had been any other time!”

The ruffle had already passed. He smiled gayly.

“Yes, yes, that is what you all say. However, I will own that it is not often you are so unreasonable.”

She flung him a grateful look, and asked, with an effort:

“Have you caught many fish?”

“Only three, and those I gave to old Antoine as he went by. No one can be expected to fish with such a sun shining on the water. Just look at it!”

She looked and shuddered. By way of saying something, she remarked:

“Claire persists that old Antoine is a vaurien.”

“Probably. From what my mother remembers, I suspect his family has been worthless for so many generations as to deserve a reward for consistency, if for nothing else. Claire is dreadfully down upon poor sinners. Must we walk as if a mad dog were at our heels! These bushes scratch. They might as well be trimmed. Do you agree? But you are not attending.”

“Yes, indeed, Léon, I think with you. And with your rod—but where is your rod?”

“Left with my basket. Your fault—you would not wait.”

She half paused.

“Oh, but I am sorry, very sorry! Your new rod! Will it not be hurt?”

“It is extremely probable that old Antoine will find an excellent opportunity for exercising his hereditary inclinations.”

She slipped her hand in his and repeated, regretfully: “I am very sorry! It was so good of you to let everything go that you might come with me, for I am terribly frightened. Where can he have hidden himself?”

“My dear child, you are becoming fussy; and if you don’t check yourself, you will develop lines in your pretty face which I should find unendurable. Raoul is perfectly safe.”

“Do you think so! But—the river?”

“The river—bah!”

M. de Beaudrillart was too sweet-tempered to be annoyed with his wife for her fears, but he was conscious of a failure in the perfect sympathy to which he was accustomed. When his fishing happened to be unsuccessful, Nathalie was alert to discover the reasons for failure, and never by awkward slip set it down to want of skill. If such a thought knocked at his own mind, her tender touch managed to shut the door upon the unwelcome intruder. No matter what other affairs occupied her, they were laid aside to give him her undivided attention, and—what was more—to be grateful to him for asking it. Perhaps he chose to be unaware of the isolated position she occupied in the household, since it had this advantage for him, that with one other he absorbed the warm affections which were strong enough to flow far and wide, could they have found space. He liked the concentration. Now, however, he felt she had not so much as listened; for, when he had finished his relation of a trout which had been so ill-behaved as to get away, instead of her usual commiseration, Nathalie did not even utter a remark. Her eyes were fixed painfully upon the river, which raced along—iron-grey in colour, except where the shallows broke it into bubbles—with its fringe of broad-leaved grasses, burdocks, and flags, a vivid green line in the midst of a somewhat dried-up country. He would have preferred a more leisurely stroll, but his wife’s impatience kept her a pace or two in advance, so that he was forced to exert himself in order to keep up with her light and swift steps. His annoyance took refuge in silence, which she in her anxious absorption did not notice.

Presently, however, she cried: “Oh, Léon, there is the bridge!”

“Did you expect to see it anywhere else?”

Generally she was quick to detect the smallest cloud of displeasure, but now she said only: “He might have been on it.”

Léon shrugged his shoulders.

“We must cross,” she said, decidedly. “I cannot help hoping that he has gone off to the village.”

“I could have told you so much long ago. He has gone off to the village, and is as safe as if he were in the château.”

“You don’t know—you only think. And if he has found him, why has not Jean brought him back?”

“Jean is a fool. It is all his fault,” grumbled the young master.

The bridge was a slight wooden structure, flung across the broad river for the convenience of the Beaudrillarts. On the other side lay the scattered cottages of a little hamlet, the apple orchards and vineyards already spoken of; while higher up a stone bridge spanned the river, available, as this was not, for carts and carriages. Beyond, you saw a white church. The people were poor, but could hardly be miserably so in a part of France where both soil and climate were gracious; ignorant and uneducated, but frugal and industrious. Most of the families had