She walks in the sun with fear,
La petit' Rosette,
Not twenty-one as yet!"

Charley's eyes, which had watched her these months past, noted the
deepening colour of the face, the glow in the eyes, the glances of keen
but agitated interest towards the singer. He could not translate her
looks; and she, on her part, had she been compelled to do so, could only
have set down a confusion of sensations.

In Rosette she saw herself, Rosalie Evanturel; in the man "de quatre-
vingt-dix ans," who was to marry this Rosette of Saintonge, she saw M.
Rossignol. Disconcerting pictures of a possible life with the Seigneur
flitted before her mind. She beheld herself, young, fresh-cheeked, with
life beating high and all the impulses of youth panting to use, sitting
at the head of the seigneury table. She saw herself in the great pew at
Mass, stiff with dignity, old in the way of manorial pride--all laughter
dead in her, all spring-time joy overshadowed by the grave decorum of the
Manor, all the imagination of her dreaming spirit chilled by the presence
of age, however kindly and quaint and cheerful.

She shuddered, and dropped her eyes upon the ground, as, to the laughter
and giggling of old and young gathered round the wagon, the medicine-man
sang:

"He takes her by the hand,
And to her chamber fair--"

Then, suddenly turning, she vanished into the night, followed by the
feeble inquiry of her father's eyes, the anxious look in Charley's.