damp atmosphere, touched by frost, crystallize on the branches of a
tree by the wayside. She must have flung herself deep into the abysses
of her dream, for though she often returned bearing on her brow, as if
from vast heights, some luminous reflections, oftener she seemed to
carry in her hand the flowers that grew beside a torrent she had
followed down a precipice.

On the warm summer evenings she would ask her father to take her on
his arm to the banks of the Vienne, where she went into ecstasies over
the beauties of the sky and fields, the glories of the setting sun, or
the infinite sweetness of the dewy evening. Her soul exhaled itself
thenceforth in a fragrance of natural poesy. Her hair, until then
simply wound about her head, she now curled and braided. Her dress
showed some research. The vine which was running wild and naturally
among the branches of the old elm, was transplanted, cut and trained
over a green and pretty trellis.

After the return of old Sauviat (then seventy years of age) from a
trip to Paris in December, 1822, the vicar came to see him one
evening, and after a few insignificant remarks he said suddenly:--

"You had better think of marrying your daughter, Sauviat. At your age
you ought not to put off the accomplishment of so important a duty."

"But is Veronique willing to be married?" asked the old man, startled.

"As you please, father," she said, lowering her eyes.

"Yes, we'll marry her!" cried stout Madame Sauviat, smiling.