The Ypres Times.
169
of those perfect dwellings that are not really of this world they exist only in our fancies,
in our fairy tales. So thought Philipp, at least, as he watched the sun set behind the clear-
cut church towers, and the white walls of the cottage gradually turn to a pale blue with the
rising moon.
Even in the light of the next morning the happy illusion was not dispelled. It was
one of those mornings that promise so much. The sky flecked with white and everything
seemed very bright and joyous.
Philipp walked from his cottage to a neighbouring brook, sat down and threw pebbles
into the rippling water, and he was still engaged in that innocent pastime when he turned
at the sound of a voice.
Monsieur, you splash me with water."
Many, many pardons, mademoiselle," said Philipp, springing up and facing a bare
headed young girl, all pink and white, who appeared from behind a willow tree. Her clear
blue eyes were filled with reproach.
You have absolutely no idea how very sorry I am. I did not see you," he added.
Perhaps," said the girl, looking straight at him. But it is wrong even to take
the risk."
I am sorry. You pardon me, please
She nodded, and there was a pause.
Mademoiselle," he said, tell me, what is that tower away over there
As he asked the question he rather wondered at the size of her eyes.
The girl clasped her hands behind her backshe had very pretty hands, tooand
looked hard at the innocent face of the thrower of pebbles. Then she smiled frankly, and
without looking towards the hill, said That is the church of St. Martin. It is seven
no, eight hundred years old. Good morning."
It might have seemed rather abrupt if she had not nodded so gracefully before she
turned and walked towards the village.
Cecile Cartilon was an orphan she lived with her uncle, old M. Fiton, whose family
had once owned not only Hautzeele itself, but much of the surrounding countryside. His
inheritance had been a heavily mortgaged estate, and his brother's little child. But for
the child it is doubtful whether M. Fiton, who was a bachelor, would have found this life
worth living. Cecile, however, was worth living for, even if one was old and suffered from
rheumatism.
It was some time before Philipp saw her again time spent not altogether at his work.
He found it difficult to concentrate on any subject of thought, for he always returned to
the girl by the brook. He had, of course, discovered who she was, on that very first
morning. Yet although he thought of her rather too frequently throughout the ensuing
days, it was curious that with his trained and natural ability to draw mental pictures, he
found it quite impossible to properly visualise her.
They met two evenings afterwards, quite by accident, no doubt, on the same spot-
He found she was still very beautiful.
Have you been to the Monastery yet, Monsieur she asked, with a curious mocking
smile.
Not yet, Mademoiselle. I have been so busy. Tell me—I do not know your name.
Mine happens to be Philipp, or that's the only part of it that matters. I am an artist,
an Englishman, and I live in Paris."
Oh An Englishman:?
Yesthough it is so many years since I have been there. It's funny, isn't it
Over there he pointed westwardsthat's my home. In Devonshire."
Why funny Philipp had used the word in a very English sense.
Well, because it is," he said.
The irrelevance of the explanation did not seem to strike her, for she continued in a
moment.
