PART III.
Beside the town of Estanquet, on the banks of a sparkling stream, whose waters run bubbling all the year long over the pebbles, a beautiful girl was gathering flowers, last year, amongst the turf: she sang so sweetly and so joyously, that the birds were jealous of her voice and of her song.
Why does she sing no more?
Hedges and meads are green again; the nightingales come even into her garden to invite her to join their lays.
Where is she?
Perhaps she is departed.

But no; her straw hat lies on the accustomed bench, but is no longer adorned with a bright ribbon: her little garden is neglected: her hoe and rake lie on the ground amongst the jonquils: the rose branches stray wildly; there are thistles at their feet, and the little paths, which used to be so neat, are filled with nettles.
Something must have happened.

Where is the lively maiden?
Do you not see her cottage shining white through the thick hazel branches?
Let us approach: the door is open; softly--let us enter.

Ah! there, in her arm-chair, sits the grandmother, asleep; and I see behind the window the fair girl of Estanquet; but she is in grief--what can ail her?
Tears are falling on her little hand: some dark cloud has passed over her heart.
Oh yes! dark indeed! for yonder sits Franconnette: there she sits, bowed down with the blow which has overwhelmed her: she weeps in her chamber, and her heart knows no relief.

Young girls often weep, and forget their sorrow quickly; but she----her grief is too deep, and it is one which tears cannot soften.