breath as hot as fire upon her lips, awoke and looked at him in terror,
understanding nothing of what was taking place within him.

"I didn't see you, my poor children!" said Germain, quickly drawing
back. "I came very near falling on you and hurting you."

Little Marie was innocent enough to believe him and went to sleep again.
Germain went to the other side of the fire, and vowed that he would not
stir until she was awake. He kept his word, but it was a hard task. He
thought that he should go mad.

At last, about midnight, the fog disappeared, and Germain could see the
stars shining through the trees. The moon also shook itself clear of the
vapors that shrouded it and began to sow diamonds on the damp moss. The
trunks of the oak-trees remained in majestic obscurity; but, a little
farther away, the white stems of the birches seemed like a row of
phantoms in their shrouds. The fire was reflected in the pool; and the
frogs, beginning to become accustomed to it, hazarded a few shrill,
timid notes; the knotty branches of the old trees, bristling with pale
lichens, crossed and recrossed, like great fleshless arms, over our
travellers' heads; it was a lovely spot, but so lonely and melancholy
that Germain, weary of suffering there, began to sing and to throw
stones into the water to charm away the ghastly _ennui_ of solitude. He
wanted also to wake little Marie; and when he saw her rise and look
about to see what the weather was like, he suggested that they should
resume their journey.

"In two hours," he said, "the approach of dawn will make the air so cold
that we couldn't stay here, notwithstanding our fire.--Now we can see
where we are going, and we shall be sure to find a house where they will