And I am dying with impatience.
"CLAIRE." Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned a large straw hat for the first days of August were warm and glorious--and went herself to drop it in the little box from which the postman collected the mail from the chateau every morning.
It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in the road.

She paused a moment to look at the trees by the roadside, at the neighboring meadows sleeping in the bright sunlight.

Over yonder the reapers were gathering the last sheaves.

Farther on they were ploughing.

But all the melancholy of the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girl was concerned, so delighted was she at the thought of seeing her friend once more.
No breeze came from the hills in the distance, no voice from the trees, to warn her by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending that fatal letter.