Even her lashes rest moveless on her cheek.
But she is not sleeping; she is listening--listening to the sobs, almost inaudible, which now and then escape from the beloved one at her side.

As they grow fainter and fainter and gradually die away altogether till stillness reigns through the whole dormitory, she rouses and bending forward on her elbow, looks long and lovingly at the wet brow of her sleeping mate.

She then sinks back again into rigidity, with a low moan, ending in the whispered words: "He does not love,--not yet.

A slight thing will turn him.

Did I not see him glance back twice, and both times at her?
The look with which she greeted him was so wonderful." * * * * * A village street in Britanny; a parish church in the distance; two women bidding each other farewell amid a group of wedding-guests, gay as the heavens are blue.
"_Au revoir!_" was the whisper breathed by the bride into the ear of the other.