When Amelie gave her love to Pierre, she gave it utterly and without
a scruple of reservation. It was so easy to love Pierre, so
impossible not to love him; nay, she remembered not the time it was
otherwise, or when he had not been first and last in her secret
thoughts as he was now in her chaste confessions, although whispered
so low that her approving angel hardly caught the sound as it passed
into the ear of Pierre Philibert.
A warm, soft wind blew gently down the little valley of the Lairet,
which wound and rippled over its glossy brown pebbles, murmuring a
quiet song down in its hollow bed. Tufts of spiry grass clung to
its steep banks, and a few wild flowers peeped out of nooks among
the sere fallen leaves that lay upon the still greensward on each
shore of the little rivulet.
Pierre and Amelie had been tempted by the beauty of the Indian
summer to dismount and send their horses forward to the city in
charge of a servant while they walked home by way of the fields to
gather the last flowers of autumn, which Amelie said lingered
longest in the deep swales of the Lairet.
Pages:
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003