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 I rode along behind her as still as a mouse, like Sancho after the sound dressing which he deservedly received from his master; and it was a long—long while before she held her hand behind her, saying, in a kind tone, but without turning round, “You are not angry, I hope.” I sprang from my horse, seized her hand, and pressed it fervently to my lips: her good humour returned, and she patted my cheeks with playful innocence.

We were just then on the summit of a hill. As I walked along by her side, another of those frolicsome zephyrs overtook us, and, more audacious than his brethren in the valley, he seemed determined to play his wanton pranks with Mimili’s plaited petticoat. “Come up to me,” said she, “for I shall sit better”—a mere pretext to prevent me from seeing any more of the freaks of the amorous wind. I accordingly sprang up behind her, and we proceeded merrily home. I laid all the blame of my offence on the fiery Corteillod. “Oh,” replied she, laughing, “there is a remedy for that! Drink water! We have the finest in the world, and plenty of it; so that you need never be at a loss.”

If we had a lordly dinner the preceding day, we had a princely entertainment on this. The old man, with genuine Swiss hospitality, produced his best wine, and we chatted away one