They listened, but could no longer hear the music which, in former years, had been almost sweeter than their own.

The nightingales, more curious than the rest, flew into the maid's garden; they saw her straw hat on a bench, a rake and watering-pot among the neglected jonquils, and the rose branches running riot.

Peering yet further and peeping into the cottage door, the curious birds discovered an old woman asleep in her arm-chair, and a pale, quiet girl beside her, dropping tears upon her lily hands.

"Yes, yes, it is.

Franconnette," says the poet.