Their idyll passed through the chilling rains of December and the burning solicitations of July, free from all touch of impurity, ever retaining the sweet charm of some old Greek love-tale, all the naive hesitancy of youth which desires but knows not.
In vain did the long-departed dead whisper in their ears.

They carried nothing away from the old cemetery but emotional melancholy and a vague presentiment of a short life.

A voice seemed to whisper to them that they would depart amidst their virginal love, long ere the bridal day would give them wholly to each other.

It was there, on the tombstone and among the bones that lay hidden beneath the rank grass, that they had first come to indulge in that longing for death, that eager desire to sleep together in the earth, that now set them stammering and sighing beside the Orcheres road, on that December night, while the two bells repeated their mournful warnings to one another.
Miette was sleeping calmly, with her head resting on Silvere's chest while he mused upon their past meeting, their lovely years of unbroken happiness.

At daybreak the girl awoke.