humour - for, my faith, it is a rare enough thing."

"True, lady," said he foolishly, yet politely agreeing with her,
"it is a rare thing." And he sighed - "Helas!"

At that the laughter leapt from her young lips, and turned him hot
and cold as be stood awkwardly before her.

"I see that we shall have you sad at the thought of how rare is
happiness, you that but a moment back were - or so it seemed - so
joyous. Or is it that my coming has overcast the sky of your good
humour?" she demanded archly.

He blushed like a school-girl, and strenuously protested that it was
not so. In his haste he fell headlong into the sin of hastiness -
as was but natural - and said perhaps too much.

"Your coming, Mademoiselle?" he echoed. "Nay but even had I been
sad, your coming must have dispelled my melancholy as the coming of
the sun dispels the mist upon the mountains."

"A poet?" She mocked him playfully, with a toss of black curls and
a distracting glance of eyes blue as the heavens above them. "A
poet, Monsieur, and I never suspected it, for all that I held you a
great scholar. My father says you are."

"Are we not all poets at some season of our lives?" quoth he, for
growing accustomed to her presence - ravished by it, indeed - his
courage was returning fast and urging him beyond the limits of
discretion.