Still they remained there, smiling at each other, the child beneath with upturned face, and the lad half reclining on the coping of the wall.

They could not part from each other.

So far they had not exchanged a word, and Silvere even forgot to say, "Thank you." "What's your name ?" he asked.
"Marie," replied the peasant-girl; "but everybody calls me Miette." Again she raised herself slightly, and in a clear voice inquired in her turn: "And yours ?" "My name is Silvere," the young workman replied.
A pause ensued, during which they seemed to be listening complacently to the music of their names.
"I'm fifteen years old," resumed Silvere.

"And you ?" "I!" said Miette; "oh, I shall be eleven on All Saints' Day." The young workman made a gesture of surprise.

"Ah! really!" he said, laughing, "and to think I took you for a woman! You've such big arms." She also began to laugh, as she lowered her eyes to her arms.