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“Come,” said Florian, again; “I’ll carry it for you.”

“For pity’s sake, don’t make me stop here, Florian, when all the people are looking at us. You see I can’t help myself now, and can’t run away, but I’ll never speak a word to you again as long as I live if you don’t go away. Come to Melchior’s Lenore to-night before curfew, and I’ll tell you every thing.”

“Shake hands, won’t you?”

Laying her left arm across the rake, Crescence took his hand, saying, “Good-bye till to-night.”

All at once, in resuming her steps, Crescence perceived what a heavy load she had to carry: she groaned as if Firnut Pete had clambered on her shoulders in broad daylight. Having reached the crucifix, she deposited the burden on the high stone erected there for that purpose. This silent assistant is always found beside the symbol of faith. At the feet of Him who laid the heaviest burden on himself to make men free and brotherly, men take off a while the load of the day, to gather strength for further toil.

Crescence looked intently at the crucifix, but without thinking of what she did; for her mind was occupied with dread of Florian’s following her. She determined not to turn round to look at him, and did turn, nevertheless; while a glow of pleasure lighted her face as she saw the brisk young fellow striding across the field.

All that day Crescence was serious and taciturn. Before dark, she took a collar, to get Walpurgia to wash it, as she said; but, instead of going to Walpurgia, she hurried to Lenore’s house. The latter came to meet her, saying,–

“Go through the barn: you’ll find him in the garden.”

“Come with me,” said Crescence.

“I’m coming directly: just you go first.”

As she entered the garden, Crescence saw Florian sitting on a log, stooping greatly, and digging into the wood with a knife which looked somewhat like a stiletto. His long chestnut hair nearly covered his forehead.

“Florian, what are you doing?” asked Crescence.

He threw the knife aside, shook his hair out of his face threw his arms around Crescence, and kissed her. She offered no resistance, but at length said,–

“There! that’s enough now: you are just the same you always were.”

“Yes; but you’re not what you used to be.”

“Not a bit changed. You are cross because I go with the geometer, a’n’t you? Well, you know you and I could never have got married. My folks won’t let me go to service; and stay with them I don’t want to, either, until my hair turns gray.”

“If that’s the way, and you like the geometer, I’ve nothing more to say: you might have told me that this morning. I remember a time when the king might have come,–and he owns the whole country, which is more than helping to measure it,–and you’d have said, ‘No, thank you: I like my Florian better, even if he have nothing but the clothes on his back.'”

“Why, how you talk! What’s the use of all that when we never can get married?”

“Oh, yes: there’s the Red Tailor’s daughter all over. If I’d only never cast eyes on you again! If I’d only broken both my legs before they ever carried me back home!”

“Oh, don’t be so solemn, now! You’ll look kindly at me yet, and laugh with me a little when you meet me, won’t you?”

She gave him a look of playful tenderness, and smiled,–though she was more disposed to weep. Florian, picking up his knife and putting it in his pocket, made a move to go, when Crescence seized his hand and said,–

“Don’t be angry with me, Florian: talk to me, dear. Don’t you see? I haven’t married the geometer yet, but cut him I can’t now: my folks would throttle me in my sleep if I was to turn him off. Nothing can come of it for two or three years, anyhow; and who knows what may happen in that time? Perhaps I shall die. I wish I would, I’m sure.”