"Where was she?"
"She and Mistiss went out for a walk, sir—down to the quarters through the grove."
Jacques brightened up like a fine dawn. The accident might turn to his advantage: he might see Mrs. Wimple safely home, then he and Belle-bouche would prolong their walk; and then she would be compelled to listen to him; and then—and then—Jacques had arranged the whole in his mind by the time he had reached the grove.
He was going along reflecting upon the hidden significance of crooks, and flowers, and shepherdesses—for Jacques was a poet, and more still, a poet in love—when a stifled laugh attracted his attention, and raising his head, he directed his dreamy glances in the direction of the sound.
He saw Belle-bouche!—Belle-bouche sitting under a flowering cherry tree, upon the brink of a little stream which, crossed by a wide single log, purled on through sun and shadow.
Belle-bouche was clad, as usual, with elegant simplicity, and her fair hair resembled gold in the vagrant gleams of sunlight which stole through the boughs, drooping their odorous blossoms over her, and scattering the delicate rosy-snow leaves on the book she held.
That book was a volume of Scotch songs, and against the rough back the little hand of Belle-bouche resembled a snow-flake.
Jacques caught his breath, and bowed and fell, so to speak, beside her.
"You came near walking into the brook," said Belle-bouche, with her languishing smile; "what, pray, were you thinking of?"
"Of you," sighed Jacques.