She was there; he could see her, gleaming white through the darkness, with her living helm of ink-black hair.

She was talking about the magpies' nests, which are so difficult to steal, and she dragged him along with her.

Then he heard the gentle murmur of the Viorne in the distance, the chirping of the belated grasshoppers, and the blowing of the breeze among the poplars in the meadows of Sainte-Claire.

Ah, how they used to run! How well he remembered it! She had learnt to swim in a fortnight.

She was a plucky girl.