out gloriously. The great pear-tree looked like a tree wrapped in cloud,
its blossoms were so thick and white. Willan paced back and forth
beneath it, where he had lain sleeping before supper. He looked toward
the window from whence he had heard the singing voice. "It must have
been she," he said. "How shall I bring it to pass to see her again? for
that I will and must." He went to the window and looked in. All was
dark. As he turned away the door at the farther end opened, and a ray of
light flashing in from the hall beyond showed Victorine bearing in her
hand the jug of cider. She had made this excuse to go to the storeroom
again, having observed that Willan had left the house.

"He might seek me again there," thought she.

Willan heard the sound, turned back, and bounding to the window
exclaimed, "Was it thou who sang?"

Victorine affected not to hear. Setting down her jug, she came close to
the window and said respectfully: "Didst thou call? What can I fetch,
sir?"

Willan Blaycke leaned both his arms on the window-sill, and looking into
the eyes of Victorine Dubois replied: "Marry, girl, thou hast already
fetched me to such a pass that thy voice rings in my ears. I asked thee
if it were thou who sang?"

Retreating from the window a step or two, Victorine said sorrowfully: "I
did not think that thou hadst the face of one who would jest lightly
with maidens." And she made as if she would go away.

"Pardon, pardon!" cried Willan. "I am not jesting; I implore thee, think