Irene did not see me at first; she walked close to her nurse, her pretty head bent down, her arms hanging, and with the tips of her pretty feet she crushed the dead leaves which littered the path.
"Good morning, Irene," I said to her.
Scarcely had she heard the sound of my voice, than she gave a piercing cry, threw herself into my arms, closed her eyes and fainted.
I carried her to a bench near by with the help of Madame Paul, her nurse.
"I feared this shock, monsieur," she said to me; "fortunately, I brought a bottle of salts with me. Poor child! she is so nervous."
"Look—look," said I, "the colour returns to her cheeks; her hands are not so cold; she is regaining consciousness."
In fact, this attack passed, Irene raised herself, and when she could sit up she hung to my neck, shedding silent tears which fell hot upon my cheeks.
"Irene, Irene, my dearest, do not weep thus. I shall see you every day."
I pressed her hands while my eyes sought hers.
She held herself up, and with a familiar motion of her head, full of grace and vivacity, she threw back the big curls which half concealed her tear-stained eyes. Then fastening upon me one of her steady, piercing glances, she said to me: