"Luckily the hunting season will soon be here, and I rely upon that for a
little amusement. In the first place, Georges and father, both
enthusiastic sportsmen, will come oftener. And then you will be here,
you know. For you will reply at once that you will come, won't you?
Monsieur Risler said not long ago that you were not well. The air of
Savigny will do you worlds of good.

"Everybody here expects you. And I am dying with impatience.


CLAIRE."


Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned a large straw hat for the first
days of August were warm and glorious--and went herself to drop it in the
little box from which the postman collected the mail from the chateau
every morning.

It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in the road. She paused a
moment to look at the trees by the roadside, at the neighboring meadows
sleeping in the bright sunlight. Over yonder the reapers were gathering
the last sheaves. Farther on they were ploughing. But all the
melancholy of the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girl was
concerned, so delighted was she at the thought of seeing her friend once
more.

No breeze came from the hills in the distance, no voice from the trees,
to warn her by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending that fatal
letter. And immediately upon her return she gave her attention to the