"Oh goodness!"
"And finally, fairest Belle-bouche, we should cross the bright streams on the pretty sylvan bridges——"
"Yes, sir."
"And most probably she would grow giddy; and I should take her in my arms, and holding her on my faithful bosom——"
Jacques opens his arms as though he would really clasp the fair shepherdess, who, half risen, with her golden curls mingled with the flowers, her cheeks the color of her red fluttering ribbons, seeks to escape the declaration which her lover is about to make.
"Oh, no! no!" she says.
He draws back despairingly, and at the same moment hears a merry voice come singing down the blossom-fretted walk, upon which millions of the snowy leaves have fallen.
"One more chance gone!" the melancholy Jacques murmurs; and turning, he bows to the new comer—the fair Philippa.[(Back to Table of Content.)]