had knocked down with a stone on the grass yonder, would fade in the
night and would never bring forth its sweet, simple fruit in the
sunshine.

To leave the peach-flower to come to maturity and be plucked by a
peasant, or to pull down the pear-blossom and rifle the buds?

Carelessly and languidly he balanced the question with himself, whilst
Bébée, forgetful of the lace patterns and the flight of the hours, stood
looking at him with anxious and pleading eyes, thinking only--was he
angry again, or would he really bring her the books and make her wise,
and let her know the stories of the past?

"Shall I see you to-morrow?" she said wistfully.

Should she?--if he left the peach-blossom safe on the wall, Jeannot the
woodcutter would come by and by and gather the fruit.

If he left the clod of earth in its pasture with all its daisies
untouched, this black-browed young peasant would cut it round with his
hatchet and carry it to his wicker cage, that the homely brown lark of
his love might sing to it some stupid wood note under a cottage eave.

The sight of the strong young forester going over the darkened fields
against the dull red skies was as a feather that suffices to sway to one
side a balance that hangs on a hair.

He had been inclined to leave her alone when he saw in his fancy the
clean, simple, mindless, honest life that her fanciful girlhood would
settle down into as time should go on. But when in the figure of the