ROSIN THE BEAU

* * * * *

The Captain January Series

By LAURA E. RICHARDS

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* * * * *

ROSIN THE BEAU

by

LAURA E. RICHARDS

Author of "Captain January," "Snow-White," "Three Margarets," "QueenHildegarde," etc.

Boston Dana Estes & CompanyPublishers

TO My Sister Maud

ROSIN THE BEAU.

CHAPTER I.

MELODY, MY DEAR CHILD:

I SIT down to write my story for you,

the life-story of old Rosin the Beau,your friend and true lover. Some day,not far distant now, my fiddle and Ishall be laid away, in the quiet spot youknow and love; and then (for you willmiss me, Melody, well I know that!) thiswriting will be read to you, and you willhear my voice still, and will learn toknow me better even than you do now;though that is better than any one elseliving knows me.

When people ask me where I hail from,our good, neighbourly, down-east way,I answer "From the Androscoggin;"and that is true enough as far as it goes,for I have spent many years on andabout the banks of that fine river; but I

have told you more than that. Youknow something of the little villagewhere I was born and brought up, farto the northeast of your own homevillage. You know something, too, ofmy second mother, as I call her, AbbyRock; but of my own sweet mother Ihave spoken little. Now you shall hear.

The first thing I can remember is mymother's playing. She was aFrenchwoman, of remarkable beautyand sweetness. Her given name wasMarie, but I have never known hermaiden surname: I doubt if she knew itherself. She came, quite by accident,being at the time little more than achild, to the village where my father,

Jacques De Arthenay, lived; he saw her,and loved her at the sight. Sheconsented to marry him, and I wastheir only child. My father was a stern,silent man, with but one bright thing inhis life, his love for my mother.Whenever she came before his eyes, thesun rose in his face, but for me he hadno great affection; he was incapable ofdividing his heart. I have now and thenseen a man with this defect; never awoman.

My first recollection, I said, is of mymother's playing. I see myself, sitting ona great black book, the family Bible. Imust have been very small, and it was alarge Bible, and lay on a table in the

sitting-room. I see my mother standingbefore me, with her violin on her arm.She is light, young, and very graceful;beauty seems to flow from her face in akind of dark brightness, if I may usesuch an expression; her eyes are softand deep. I have seen no other eyes likemy mother Marie's. She taps the violinwith the bow; then she taps me underthe chin.

"Dis 'Bon jour!' petit Jacques!" and I say"Bo' zour!" as well as I can, and duckmy head, for a bow is expected of me.No bow, no music, and I am quiveringwith eagerness for the music. Now shedraws the bow across the strings, softly,smoothly, ah, my dear, you have heard

only me play, all your life; if you couldhave heard my mother! As I see her andhear her, this day of my babyhood, thesong she plays is the little French songthat you love. If you could have heardher sing!

"A la claire fontaine As I went walking,walking, M'en allant promener, Besidethe fountain fair, Jai trouve l'eau si belleI found its waves so lovely, Que je m'ysuis baigne. I stayed to bathe me there.Il y a longtemps que je 'Tis long andlong I have t'aime, loved thee, Jamais jene t'oublierai!" I'll ne'er forget theemore.

It is the song of my life, Melody; I

never told you that before, but it hasalways pleased me well that you caredfor it.

As my mother sings the last words, shebends and kisses the violin, which wasalways a living personage to her. Herhead moves like a bird's head, quicklyand softly. I see her face all brightness,as I have told you; then suddenly ashadow falls on it. My back is towardsthe door, but she stands facing it. I feelmyself snatched up by hands likequivering steel; I am set down notroughly on the floor. My father turns aterrible face on my mother.

"Mary!" he cried. "He was on the Bible!

You you set the child on the HolyBible!"

I am too frightened to cry out or move,but my mother Marie lays down herviolin in its box as tenderly as shewould lay me in my cradle and goes tomy father, and puts her arm round hisneck, and speaks to him low and gently,stroking back his short, fair hair.Presently the frightful look goes out ofhis face; it softens into love andsadness; they go hand-in-hand into theinner room, and I hear their voicestogether speaking gravely, slowly. I donot know that they are praying, I haveknown it since. I watch the flies on thewindow, and wish my father had not

come.

That, Melody, is the first thing Iremember. It must have been after that,that my father made me a little chair,and my mother made a gay cushion forit, with scarlet frills, and I sat always inthat. Our kitchen was a sunny room,full of bright things; Mother Mariekept everything shining. The floor waspainted yellow, and the rugs werescarlet and blue; she dyed the clothherself, and made them beautifully.There was always a fire or so it seemsnow in the great black gulf of afireplace, and the crane hung over it,with pots and kettles. The firelight wasthrown back from bright pewter and

glass and copper all about the walls; Ihave never seen so gay a room. Andalways flowers in the window, andalways a yellow cat on a red cushion.No canary bird; my mother Marie neverwould have a bird. "No prisoners!" shewould say. Once a neighbour broughther a wounded sparrow; she nursedand tended it till spring, then set itloose and watched it fly away.

This neighbour was a boy, some yearsolder than myself; he is one of thepeople I remember best. Petie we calledhim; Peter Brand; he died long ago. Hehad been a comfort to my motherMarie, in days of sadness, before mybirth, for she was never sad after I

came, and she loved him, and he clungto her. He was a round-faced boy, withhair almost white; awkward and shy,but very good to me.

As I grew older my mother taught memany French songs and games, andPetie often made a third with us. Hemade strange work of the Frenchspeech; to me it came like runningwater, but to Petie it was like pouringwine from a corked bottle. MotherMarie could not understand this, andtried always to teach him. I can hear hercry out, "Not thus, Petie! not! you breakme the ears! Listen only!

"'Sur le pont d'Avignon,'

Encore! again, Petie! sing wiz p'titJacques!"

And Petie would drone out, all on onenote (for the poor boy had no musiceither),

"Sooly pong d'Avinnong,"

And Mother Marie would put herhands to her ears and cry out, "Ah, quenon! ah, que non! you keell me in myheart!" and poor Petie would be soashamed! Then Mother Marie would begrieved for him, and would beat herself,and say that she was a demon, amonster of cruelty; and she would run

to the cupboard and bring cakes anddoughnuts (she always called them"dont's," I remember that), and makePetie eat till his eyes stood out. And italways ended in her taking out theviolin, and playing and singing ourhearts to heaven. Petie loved music,when Mother Marie made it.

I speak of cakes. There was no one inthe village who could cook like mymother; every one acknowledged that.Whatever she put her hand to was doneto perfection. And the prettiness of itall! A flower, a green leaf, a bunch ofparsley, there was some delicate, prettytouch to everything she did. I musthave been still small when I began to

notice how she arranged the dishes onour table. These matters can mean butlittle to you, my dear child; but the eyesof your mind are so quick, I know it isone of your delights to fancy thecolours and lights that you cannot see.Some bright-coloured food, then, friedfish, it might be, which should be of agolden brown shade, would be alwayson a dark blue platter, while a darkdish, say beefsteak, would be on thecreamy yellow crockery that hadbelonged to my father's mother; andwith it a wreath of parsley or carrot,setting off the yellow still more. Andalways, winter and summer, someflower, if only a single geranium-bloom, on the table. So that our table

was always like a festival. I think thistroubled my father, when his darkmoods were on him. He thought it asnare of the flesh. Sometimes, if themeal were specially dainty, he would eatnothing but dry bread, and this grievedMother Marie almost more thananything else. I remember one day, itwas my birthday, and I must have beenquite a big boy by that time, MotherMarie had made a pretty rose-feast forme. The table was strewn with rose-leaves, and there was a garland of rosesround my plate, and they stoodeverywhere, in cups and bowls. Therewas a round cake, too, with rose-coloured frosting; I thought the angelsmight have such feasts on their

birthdays, but was sure no one elsecould.

But when my father came in, I can seenow his look of pain and terror.

"You are tempting the Lord, Mary!" hecried. "You are teaching our child tolove the lust of the flesh and the prideof the eye. It is sin, it is sin, my wife!"

I trembled, for I feared he would throwmy beautiful cake into the fire, as I hadonce seen him throw a pretty salad. Butmy mother Marie took his arm. Thedoor stood open, and the warm Junewas shining through. She led him to thedoorway, and pointed to the sky.

"Look, mon ami!" she said, in her clear,soft voice. "See the day of gold that thegood God has made for our littleJacques! He fills the garden wiz roses, Ibring His roses in ze house. It is thatHe love ze roses, and ze little child, andthee and me, my poor Jacques; for Hemake us all, is it not "

And presently, with her soft hand onhis arm, the pain went from my poorfather, and he came in and sat downwith us, and even patted my head andtasted the cake. I recall many suchscenes as this, my dear child. Andperhaps I should say that my mind was,and has always remained, with my

mother on such matters. If God givesfood for the use of His creatures, it isto His honour and glory to serve ithandsomely, so far as may be; and I seelittle religion in a slovenly piece ofmeat, or a shapeless hunch of butter ona dingy plate.

My mother having this gift of grace, itwas not strange that the neighboursoften called on her for some service ofmaking beautiful. At a wedding or amerrymaking of any kind she would besent for, and the neighbours, who wereplain people, thought her gift morethan natural. People still speak of herin all that part of the country, thoughshe has been dead sixty odd years, little

Mother Marie. She would have liked tomake the meeting-house beautiful eachSabbath with flowers, but this myfather could not hear of, and she neverurged it after the first time. At a funeral,too, she must arrange the whiteblossoms, and lay the pale handstogether. Abby Rock has told me manystories of the comfort she brought tosorrowing homes, with her sweet, light,quiet ways. Abby loved her as her ownchild.

As I grew older, my mother taught methe violin. I learned eagerly. I need notsay much about that, Melody; my bestplaying has been for you, and youknow all I could tell you; I learned, and

it became the breath of life to me. Mylessons were in the morning always, sothat my father might not hear thesound; but this was not because he didnot love the violin. Far otherwise! Inthe long winter evenings my motherMarie would play for him, after I wastucked up in my trundle-bed; music ofreligious quality, which stirred his deep,silent nature strongly. She had learnedall the psalm-tunes that he loved, sternold Huguenot melodies, many of them,that had come over from France withhis ancestor, and been sung downthrough the generations since. Andwith these she played soft, tender airs, Inever knew what they were, but theycould wile the heart out of one's breast.

I sometimes would lift my head frommy pillow, and look through the opendoor at the warm, light kitchen beyond(for my mother Marie could not bear toshut me into the cold, dark littlebedroom; my door stood open allnight, and if I woke in the night, thecoals would always wink me a friendlygreeting, and I could hear the catpurring on her cushion). I would look,I say, through the open door. Therewould my mother stand, with the light,swaying way she had, like a flower or ayoung white birch in the wind; hercheek resting on the violin, her eyelidsdropped, as they mostly were when sheplayed, and the long lashes blackagainst her soft, clear paleness. And my

father Jacques sitting by the fire, hischin in his hand, still as a carved image,looking at her with his heart in his eyes.That is the way I think of themoftenest, Melody, my dear, as I lookback to the days long ago; this is theway I mostly see my father and mother,Jacques and Marie De Arthenay, afaithful husband and wife.

CHAPTER II.

OUR village was not far from the sea,and my mother often took me down tothe beach. It was a curving beach offine sand, bright and warm, and the

rocks that shut it in were warm, too,brown and yellow; it was a sunny,heartsome place as ever I saw. Iremember one day, many days, and thisone of them, when the three of uswent down to the beach, Mother Marieand Petie Brand and I. The Lady, theviolin, went too, of course, and we hadour music, and it left us heartenedthrough and through, and friends withall the world. Then we began to skipstones, three children together. Petieand I were only learning, and MotherMarie laughed at our stones, whichwould go flopping and tumbling a littleway, then sink with a splash.

"They are ducks!" she said. (She called

it "docks," Melody; you cannot thinkhow soft her speech was.) "Poor leetledocks, that go flap, flap; not yet zeyhave learned to swim, no! But herenow, see a bird of ze water, a sea-birdwhat you call." She turned her wristand sent the flat pebble flying; itskimmed along like a live thing,flipping the little crests of the ripples,going miles, it seemed to Petie and me,till at length we lost sight of italtogether.

"Where did it go " I asked. "I didn'thear it splash."

"It went to France!" said Mother Marie."It make a voyage, it goes, goes, at last it

arrives. 'Voila la France!' it say. 'That I goashore, to ask of things for Marie, andfor petit Jacques, and for Petie too, goodPetie, who bring the apples.'"

There were red apples in a basket, and Ican see now the bright whiteness ofher teeth as she set them into one.

"What will the stone see " I askedagain; for I loved to make my mothertell me of the things she rememberedin France, the country she always loved.She loved to tell, too; and a dreamylook would come into her eyes at suchtimes, as if she did not see us near athand, but only things far off and dim.We listened, Petie and I, as if for a fairy

tale.

"He come, zat leetle non! that lit-telstone." (Mother Marie could oftenpronounce our English "th" quite well;it was only when she forgot that sheslipped back to the soft "z" which Iliked much better.) "He come to theshore! It is not as this shore, no! Whiteis the sand, the rocks black, black. Allabout are nets, very great, and boats.The men are great and brown; and theirbeards Holy Cric! their beards are abush for owls; and striped their shirt,jersey, what you call, and blue trousers.Zey come in from sea, their sails arebrown and red; the boats are full wizfish, that shine like silver; they are the

herring, petit Jacques, it is of those thatwe live a great deal. Down zen come zewomen to ze shore and zey they aredressed beautiful, ah! so beautiful! Ared petticoat, sometimes a blue, but Ilove best the red, striped wiz white, andover this the dress turned up, a lablanchisseuse. A handkerchief roundtheir neck, and gold earrings, ah! longones, to touch their neck; and goldbeads, most beautiful! and then the cap!P'tit Jacques, thou hast not seen caps,because here they have not theunderstanding. But! white, like snow inze sun; the muslin clear, youunderstand, and stiff that it cracks, ah!of a beauty! and standing out likewings here, and here you do not listen!

you make not attention, bad childrenthat you are! Go! I tell you no more!"

It was true, Melody, my dear, that Petieand I did not care so much about thedescriptions of dress as if we had beenlittle girls; my mother was never wearyof telling about the caps and earrings; Ithink she often longed for them, poorlittle Mother Marie! But now Petie andI clung about her, and begged her to goon, and she never could keep hervexation for two minutes.

"Tell how they go up the street!" saidPetie.

"Play we went, too!" cried I. "Play the

stone was a boat, Mere Marie." (I said itas one word, Melody; it makes a prettyname, "Mere-Marie," when thepronunciation is good. To hear ourpeople say "M'ree" or "Marry," breaksthe heart, as my mother used to say.)

She nodded, pleased enough to play,for she was a child, as I have told you,in many, many ways, though with awoman's heart and understanding, andclapped our hands softly together, asshe held them in hers.

"We, then, yes! we three, Mere-Marie,p'tit Jacques, and Petie, we go up fromthe beach, up the street that goes tic tac,zic zac, here and there, up the hill; very

steep in zose parts. We come to oneplace, it is steps "

"Steps in the street "

"Steps that make the street, but yes! andon them (white steps, clean! ah! of acleanness!), in the sun, sit the oldwomen, and spin, and sing, and tellstories. Ah! the fine steps. They, too,have caps, but they are brown in thefaces, and striped "

"Striped, Mere-Marie painted, do youmean "

"She said the steps had caps!"whispered Petie, incredulous, but too

eager for the story to interrupt theteller.

"Painted wat you mean of foolishness,p'tit Jacques Ah! I was wrong! notstriped; wreenkled, you say all uptogezzer like a brown apple when he isdry up, like zis way!" and Mother Mariedrew her pretty face all together in aknot, and looked so comical that wewent into fits of laughter.

"So! zey sit, ze old women, and talk,talk, wiz ze heads together; but one sitalone, away from those others, and shesing. Her voice go up, thin, thin, like alittle cold wind in ze boat-ropes.

"'Il etait trois mat'lots de Groix, Il etaittrois mat'lots de Groix, Embarques surle Saint Francois, Tra la derira, la la la,Tra la derira la laire!'[1]

"I make learn you that song, petit Jacques,one time! So we come, now, mes enfants,we come! and all the old women pointthe nose, and say, 'Who is it comesthere ' But that one old but MereJeanne, she cry out loud, loud. 'Marie!petite Marie, where hast thou been solong, so long ' She opens the arms I fallinto zem, on my knees; I cry but hush,p'tit Jacques! I cry now only in ze story,only to to show thee how it would be! Isay, 'It is me, Marie, Mere Jeanne! Icome to show thee my little son, to take

thy blessing. And my little friend, too!'"She turned to pat Petie's head; shewould not let the motherless boy feelleft out, even from a world in which hehad no part.

"My good friend Petie, whose mother iswith the saints. Then Mere Jeanne, shetake all our hands, after she has herweep; she say 'Come!' and we go up zestreet, up, up, till we come to MereJeanne's house."

"Tell about the house!" I cried.

"Holy Cric! what a house!" cried Mere-Marie, clapping her hands together. "Itis stone, painted white, clean, like new

cheese; the roof beautiful, straw, warm,thick, ah! what roofs! I have tried toteach thy father to make them, but no!Inside, it is dark and warm, and full wizgood smells. Now it is the pot-au-feu, butnot every day zis, for Mere Jeanne ispoor; but always somesing, fish to fry,or pancakes, or apples. But zis time,Mere Jeanne make me a fete; she say, 'Itis the Fete Marie!'

"She make the fire bright, bright; andshe bring big chestnuts, two handfulsof zem, and set zem on ze shovel toroast; and zen she put ze greedle, andshe mixed ze batter in a great bowl it isyellow, that bowl, and the spoon, it ishorn. She show it to me, she say, 'Wat

leetle child was eat wiz this spoon,Marie hein ' and I I kiss the spoon; Isay, ''Tite Marie, Mere Jeanne! 'Tite Mariequi t'aime!'[2] It is the first words I couldsay of my life, mes enfants!

"Zen she laugh, and nod her head, andshe stir, stir, stir till ze bobbles come "

"The way they do when you makegriddle-cakes, Mere-Marie "

"Ah! no! much, much, thousand timebetter, Mere Jeanne make zem! She tossthem so! wiz ze spoon, and they shinelike gold, and when they come downhop! they say 'Sssssssssss!' that they liketo fry for Mere Jeanne, and for Marie,

and p'tit Jacques, and good Petie. Then Ibring out the black table, and I knowwhere the bread live, and the cheese,and while the cakes fry, I go to milk thecow ah! the pearl of cows, children,white like her own cream, fat like aboiled chestnut, good like an angel! Shehas not forgotten Marie, she rub hernose in my heart, she sing to me. I takeher wiz both my arms, I weep ah! but itis joy, p'tit Jacques! it is wiz joy I weep!Zen, again in ze house, and round zetable, we all sit, and we eat, and eat, thatwe can eat no more. And Mere Jeannesay:

"'Tell me of thy home, Marie!' and I tellall, all; of thy father Jacques, how he

good, and great, and handsome as SaintMichael; and how my house is fine,fine, and how Abiroc is good. AndMere Jeanne, she make the great eyes;she cry, 'Ah! the good fortune! Ah,Marie, that thou art fortunate, that thouart happy!'

"Then she tell thee, p'tit Jacques, how Iwas little, little, in a blue frock, wiz thecap tie under my chin; and how I danceand sing in the street, and how Madamela Comtesse see me, and take me to zecastle, and make teach me the violin,and give me Madame for my friend. Ihave told thee all, many, many times.Then she tell, Mere Jeanne, oh! she isgood, good, and all ze time she fill thee

wiz chestnuts that I cry out lest thoudie, she tell how one day she comehome from market, and I am gone. NoMarie! She look, she run here and there,she cry, ''Tite Marie, where art thou ' NoMarie come. She run to the neighbours,she search, she tear her cap; they tellher, 'Demand of thy son's wife! Thestrange ship sailed this morning; weheard child cry; what do we know '

"For the wife of Mere Jeanne's Jeannot,she was a devil, as I have told thee, adevil with both the eyes evil; and nonedare say what she had done, for fear oftheir children and their cows to die.And then, Mere Jeanne she tell how sherun to Jeannot's house, she fear

nossing, Mere Jeanne! the good Godprotect her always. She cry, 'Where isMarie where is my child ' And Jeannot'sManon, she laugh, she say, 'Cross thesea after her, old witch! Who keeps thee' Then see, p'tit Jacques! see, Petie! I havenot seen this wiz my eyes, no! but in myheart I have seen, I know! Then MereJeanne run at that woman, that devil;and she pull off her cap and tread itwiz her foot; and she pull out her hair,never she had much, but since this daynone! and she scratch her face and tearthe clothes ah! Mere Jeanne is mild likea cherub till she is angry, but then Andthat devil scream, scream, but no onecome, no one care; they are all glad,they laugh to hear. Till Jeannot run in,

and catch his mother and hold herhands, and take her home to her house.She tell me all this, Mere Jeanne, and itis true, and I know it in my heart. Butnow she is dead, that witch, and thegreat devil has her, and that is well." (Ithink my father would have lost hiswits, Melody, if he had heard the waymy mother talked to me sometimes; butit was a child's talk, my dear, and therewas no harm. A child who had beenbrought up among ignorant peasants;how should she know better, poor littleMother Marie )

"But now, see, mes enfants! We mustcome back across the sea, for ze sun, hebegin to go away down. So I tell zis,

and Mere Jeanne she cry, she take uswiz her arms, she cannot let us go. ButI take Madame on my arm, I go out inze street, I begin to play wiz my hand.Then all come, all run, all cry, 'Marie!Marie is here wiz her violon!' And I play,play and sing, and the little childrendance, dance, and p'tit Jacques and Petietake them the hands and dance wiz

"'Eh! gai, Coco, Eh! gai, Coco, Eh!venez voir la danse Du petit marmot!Eh! venez voir la danse Du petitmarmot!'

"Adieu, adieu, Mere Jeanne! adieu, laFrance! but you, mes enfants; why do youcry "

FOOTNOTES:

[1] There were three sailor-lads ofGroix, There were three sailor-lads ofGroix, They sailed in the Saint Francois,Tra la derira, etc.

[2] Little Marie, Mother Jeanne! LittleMarie who loves you.

CHAPTER III.

I WAS twelve years old when mymother died. She had no illness, ornone that we had known of; the sweet

soul of her slipped away in the nightlike a bird, and left the body smilingasleep. We never knew what ailed her;people did not torment themselves inthose days with the "how" of a thing.There may have been talk behind thevillage doors, but my father neverasked. She was gone, and his heart wasgone with her, my poor father. She wasall the joy of his life, and he never hadany more; I never remember seeing himsmile after that time. What gave him thebest comfort was trying to keep thingspretty and bright, as she liked to seethem. He was neat as a woman, and henever allowed a speck of dust on thechairs, or a withered leaf on thegeraniums. He never would let me

touch her flowers, but I was set topolish the pewter and copper, indeed,my mother had taught me that, and hewatched jealously lest any dimnesscome on them. I sometimes wonderedat all this, as he had so lately countedthese matters of adornment andprettiness and such as less thannothing, and vanity, as the preacher hasit. But I think his great grief put asacredness, as it were, over everythingthat had been hers, and all her waysseemed heavenly to him now, eventhough he had frowned at them (neverat her, Melody, my dear! never at her!)when she was still with him.

My father wished me to help him in the

farm work, but I had no turn for that. Iwas growing up tall and weedy, andmost like my strength went into that.However it was, there was little of it forfarming, and less liking. Father Jacquesmade up his mind that I was no goodfor anything, but Abby Rock stood upfor me.

"The boy is not strong enough forfarming, Jacques!" she said. "He's nearas tall as you, now, and not fifteen yet.Put him to learn a trade, and he'll be acredit to you."

So I was put to learn shoemaking, anda good trade it has been to me all mylife. The shoemaker was a kind old

man, who had known me from a baby,and he contrived to make my work easyfor me, seeing I took kindly to it, andoften let me have the afternoon tomyself. My lungs were weak, or Abbythought they were, and the doctor hadtold her I must not sit too long over mybench, but must be out in the air asmuch as might be, though not at hardlabour. Then, those afternoons, I amsaying, I would be off like a flash withmy fiddle, off to the yellow sand beachwhere the round pebbles lay. I couldnever let my poor father hear me play; itwas a knife in his heart even to see theLady; and these hours on the beachwere my comfort, and kept the spiritalive in me. Looking out to sea, I could

still feel my mother Marie beside me,still hear her voice singing, so gay, sosad, singing all ways, as the wind blows.She had no voice like yours, Melody,my dear, but it was small and sweet as abird's; sweet as a bird's! It was there, onthe yellow sand beach, that I first metFather L'Homme-Dieu, the priest.

I have told you a great deal about thisgood man, Melody. He came of oldFrench stock, like ourselves, like mostof the people in our village; only hispeople had always been Catholics. Hisvillage, where he had a little woodenchurch, was ten or twelve miles fromours, but he was the only priest fortwenty miles round, and he rode or

walked long distances, visiting thescattered families that belonged to hisfollowing. He chanced to come to thebeach one day when I was there, andstayed to hear me play. I never knew hewas there till I turned to go home; butthen he spoke to me, and asked aboutmy music and my home, and talked sokindly and wisely that my heart wentout to him that very hour. He took tome, too; he was a lonely man, and therewas none in his own neighbourhoodthat he cared to make his friend; andseldom a week passed that he did notfind his way to the beach, for an hourof music and talk. Talk! How we didtalk! There was always a book in hispocket, too, and he would read some

fine passage aloud, and then we woulddiscuss it, and turn it over and over,and let it draw our own thoughts like amagnet. It was a rare chance for acountry boy, Melody! Here was ascholar, and as fine a gentleman as everI met, and the heart of a child and awise man melted into one; and I like hisown son for the kindness he gave me.Sometimes I went to his house, but notoften, for I could not take so long atime away from my work. He lived in alittle house like a bird's house, and thelittle brown woman who did for himwas like a bird, and of all curiousthings, her name was Sparrow, thewidow Sparrow.

There was a little study, where he sat ata desk in the middle, and could pulldown any book, almost, with no morethan tilting his chair; and there was alittle dining-room, and a closet with awindow in it, where his bed stood. Allthese rooms were lined with books,most of them works of theology andreligion, but plenty of others, too:poetry, and romances, and plays, he wasa great reader, and his books were allthe friends he had, he used to say, till hefound me. I should have been his son,he would say; and then lay his hand onmy head and bid me be good, and saymy prayers, and keep my heart true andclean. He never talked much to me ofhis own church (knowing my father by

name and reputation), only made plainto me the love of God, and taught meto seek it through loving man.

I used to wonder how he came to bethere, in the wilderness, as it must oftenhave seemed to him, for he hadtravelled much, and was city-bred, hispeople having left the seacoast andsettled inland in his grandfather's time.One day, as I stood by his desk waitingfor him, I saw a box that always laythere, set open; and in it was a portraitof a most beautiful lady in a rich dress.The portrait was in a gold frame setwith red stones, rubies, they may havebeen, and was a rich jewel indeed.While I stood looking at it, Father

L'Homme-Dieu came in; and at sightof the open box, and me looking at it,his face, that was like old ivory in itsordinary look, flushed dark red as thestones themselves. I was sorely vexed atmyself, and frightened too, maybe; butthe change passed from him, and hespoke in his own quiet voice. "That isthe first half of my life, Jacques!" hesaid. "It is set in heart's blood, my son."And told me that this was hissweetheart who was drowned at sea,and it was after her death that hebecame a priest, and came to find somefew sheep in the wilderness, near thespot where his fathers had lived. Thenhe bade me look well at the sweet face,and when my time should come to

love, seek out one, if not so fair (as hethought there were none such), still oneas true, and pure, and tender, andloving once, let it last till death; and soclosed the box, and I never saw it openagain.

All this time I never let my father knowabout Father L'Homme-Dieu. It wouldhave seemed to him a terrible thing thathis son should be friends with a priestof the Roman Church, which he held athing accursed. I thought it no sin tokeep his mind at peace, and clear ofthis thing, for a cloud was gatheringover him, my poor father. I told Abby,however, good Abby Rock; and thoughit shocked her at first, she was soon

convinced that I brought home goodinstead of harm from my talks withFather L'Homme-Dieu. She it was whobegged me not to tell my father, andshe knew him better than any one elsedid, now that my mother Marie wasgone. She told me, too, of the dangerthat hung over my poor father. Thedark moods, since my mother's death,came over him more and more often; itseemed, when he was in one of them,that his mind was not itself. He neverslighted his work, that was like thebreath he drew, but when it was done,he would sit for hours brooding by thefireplace, looking at the little emptychair where my mother used to sit andsing at her sewing. And sitting so and

brooding, now and again there wouldcome over him as it were a blindness,and a forgetting of all about him, sothat when he came out of it he wouldcry out, asking where he was, and whathad been done to him. He wouldforget, too, that my mother was gone,and would call her, "Mary! Mary!" sothat one's heart ached to hear him; andthen Abby or I must make it clear tohim again, and see the dumb sufferingof him, like a creature that had not thepower of speech, and knew nothingbut pain and remembrance.

I might have been seventeen oreighteen at this time; I do not recall theprecise year. I was doing well with my

shoemaking, and when this troublegrew on my poor father I brought mybench into the kitchen, so that I mighthave him always in sight. This was wellenough for every day, but already I wasbeginning to be sent for here and there,among the neighbouring villages, toplay the fiddle. The people of myfather's kind were passing away, thosewho thought music a device of thedevil, and believed that dancing feetwere treading the road to hell. He wasstill a power in our own village; but inthe country round about the youngfolks were learning the use of their feet,and none could hinder them, being thecourse of nature, since young lambsfirst skipped in the meadows. It was an

old farmer, a good, jolly kind of man,who first gave me the name of "Rosin."He sent for me to play at his barn-raising, and a pretty sight it was; a finenew barn, Melody, all smelling sweet offresh wood, and hung with lanterns,and a vast quantity of fruits andvegetables and late flowers set all about.Pretty, pretty! I have never seen aprettier barn-raising than that, and Ihave fiddled at a many since then. Well,this old gentleman calls to me acrossthe floor, "Come here, young Rosin!" Iremember his very words. "Come here,young Rosin! I can't get my tongueround your outlandish name, butRosin'll do well enough for you." Well,it stuck to me, the name did, and I was

never sorry, for I did not like to carrymy father's name about overmuch, hemisliking the dancing as he did. Theyoung folks caught up an old song, andtagged that name on too, and called meRosin the Bow. So it was first, Melody;but there are two songs, as you know,my dear, to the one tune (or one tune isall I know, and fits both sets of words),and the second song spells the word"Beau," and so some merry girls in ahouse where I often went to play, theyvowed I should be Rosin the Beau. Isuppose I may have been rather agood-looking lad, from what they usedto say; and to make a long story short,it was by that name that I came to beknown through the country, and shall

be known till I die. An old beauenough now, my little girl; eighty yearsold your Rosin will be, if he lives tillnext September. I took to playing theair whenever I entered a room; it madea little effect, a little stir, I was youngand foolish, and it took little to pleaseme in those days. But I have alwaysthought, and think still, that a man, aswell as a woman, should make the bestof the mortal part of him; and I do notknow why we should not be thankfulfor a well-looking body as for a well-ordered mind. I cannot abide to see aman shamble or slouch, or throw hisarms and legs about as if they weretimber logs. Many is the time I havesaid to my scholars, when I was

teaching dancing-school, greatlumbering fellows, hulking through aquadrille as if they were pacing a raft inlog-running, "Don't insult your Creatorby making a scarecrow of the body Hehas seen fit to give you. With reverence,He might have given it to one of betterunderstanding; but since you have it,for piety's sake hold up your head,square your shoulders, and put yourfeet in the first position!"

But I wander from the thread of mystory, as old folks will do. After all, it isonly a small story, of a small life; notevery man is born to be great, my dear.Yet, while I sat on my shoemaker'sbench, stitching away, I thought of

greatness, as I suppose most boys do. Ithought of a scholar's life, like that ofFather L'Homme-Dieu before hissorrow came to him; a life spent incities, among libraries and learned,brilliant people, men and women. Ithought of a musician's life, anddreamed of the concerts and operasthat I had never heard. The poetWordsworth, my dear, has writtenimmortal words about the dreams of aboy, and my dreams were fair enough.It seemed as if all the world outsidewere clouded in a golden glory, if Imay put it so, and as if I had only torun forth and put aside this shiningveil, to find myself famous, and happy,and blessed. And when I came down

from the clouds, and saw my little blackbench, and the tools and scraps ofleather, and my poor father sittingbrooding over the fire, my heart wouldsink down within me, and the longingwould come strong upon me to throwdown hammer and last, and run away,out into that great world that wascalling for me. And so the days went by,and the months, and the years.

CHAPTER IV.

I WAS twenty years old when thechange came in my life. I remember theday was cold and bleak, an early spring

day. My father had had an accident afew days before. In one of hisunconscious fits he had fallen forwardI had left the room but for a momentand struck his head sharply against oneof the fire-irons. He came to himselfquite wild, and seeing the blood,thought he had killed some one, andcried to us to take him to prison as amurderer. It took Abby and me a longtime to quiet him. The shock and thepain of it all had shaken me more thanI knew, and I felt sick, and did notknow what ailed me; but Abby knew,and she sent me to see FatherL'Homme-Dieu, while she sat with myfather. I was glad enough to go, moreglad than my duty allowed, I fear; yet I

knew that Abby was better than I atcaring for my father.

As I walked across the brown fields,where the green was beginning to prickin little points here and there, I beganto feel the life strong in me once more.The dull cloud of depression seemedto drop away, and instead of seeingalways that sad, set face of my poorfather's, I could look up and around,and whistle to the squirrels, and notethe woodpecker running round the treenear me. It has remained a mystery tome all my life, Melody, that this bird'sbrains are not constantly addled in hishead, from the violence of his rapping.When I was a little boy, I tried, I

remember, to nod my head as fast as hiswent nodding: with the effect that Igrew dizzy and sick, and Mother Mariethought I was going to die, and said theWhite Paternoster over me five times.

I looked about me, I say, and felt myspirit waking with the waking of theyear. Yet, though I was glad to feel aliveand young once more, I never thoughtI was going to anything new orwonderful. The wise, kind friend wouldbe there; we should talk, and I shouldcome away refreshed and strengthened,in peace and courage; I thought ofnothing more. But when the widowSparrow opened the door to me, Iheard voices from the room within; a

strange voice of a man, and the priest'sanswering. I stopped short on thethreshold.

"The Father is busy!" I said. "I will callagain, when he is alone."

"Now don't you!" said Mrs. Sparrow,who was always fond of me, andthought it a terrible walk for me to take,so young, and with the "growingweakness" not out of me. "Don't ye goa step, Jacques! I expect you can comein just as well as not. There is agentleman here, but he's so pleasant, Ishould wish to have you see him, if Iwas the Father."

I was hesitating, all the shyness of acountry-bred boy coming over me; for Ihad a quick ear, and this strange voicewas not like the voices I was used tohearing; it was like Father L'Homme-Dieu's, fine and high-bred. But the nextinstant Father L'Homme-Dieu hadstepped to the door of the study, andsaw me.

"Come in, Jacques!" he cried. His eyeswere bright, and his air gay, as I hadnever seen it. "Come in, my son! I havea friend here, and you are the veryperson I want him to meet." I steppedover the threshold awkwardly enough,and stood before the stranger. He was ayoung man, a few years older than

myself; tall and slender, we might havebeen twins as far as height and buildwent, but there the resemblance ceased.He was fair, with such delicatecolouring that he might have lookedwomanish but for the dark fiery blueof his eyes, and his little curledmoustache. He looked the way youfancy a prince looking, Melody, whenAuntie Joy tells you a fairy story, thoughhe was simply dressed enough.

"Marquis," said Father L'Homme-Dieu,with a shade of ceremony that I hadnever heard before in his tone, "let mepresent to you M. Jacques D'Arthenay,my friend! Jacques, this is the Marquisde Ste. Valerie."

He gave my name the Frenchpronunciation. It was kindly meant; atmy present age, I think it was perhapsrightly done; but then, it filled me witha kind of rage. The angry blood of afalse pride, a false humility, surged tomy brain and sang in my ears; and asthe young man stepped forward withoutstretched hand, crying, "Acompatriot. Welcome, monsieur!" Idrew back, stammering with anger. "Myname is Jacques De Arthenay!"[3] Isaid. "I am an American, a shoemaker,and the son of a farmer."

There was a moment of silence, inwhich I seemed to live a year. I was

conscious of everything, the well-bredsurprise of the young nobleman, thehalf-amused vexation of the priest, myown clumsy, boyish rage and confusion.In reality it was only a few secondsbefore I felt my friend's hand on myshoulder, with its kind, fatherly touch.

"Sit down, my child!" he said. "Does itmatter greatly how a name ispronounced It is the same name, and Ipronounced it thus, not without areason. Sit down, and have peace!"

There was authority as well as kindnessin his voice. I sat down, still tremblingand blushing. Father L'Homme-Dieuwent on quietly, as if nothing had

happened.

"It was for the marquis's sake that Igave your name its former and correctpronunciation, my son Jacques. If Imistake not, he is of the same part ofFrance from which your ancestorscame. Huguenots of Blanque, am I notright, marquis "

I was conscious that the stranger,whom I was inwardly accusing as apretentious puppy, a slip of a dead andworthless tree, was looking at meintently; my eyes seemed drawn to hiswhether I would or no. So meetingthose blue eyes, there passed as it were aflash from them into mine, a flash that

warmed and lightened, as a smile brokeover his face.

"D'Arthenay!" he said, in a tone thatseemed to search for someremembrance. "D'Arthenay, tenez foi! n'est-ce pas, monsieur "

I started. The words were the motto ofmy father's house. They were engravedon the stone which marked the graveof my grandfather many times back,Jacques, Sieur D'Arthenay. Seeing myagitation, the marquis leaned forwardeagerly. He was full of quick, lightgestures, that somehow brought mymother back to me.

"But, we are neighbours!" he cried. "Wemust be friends, M. D'Arthenay. Yourtower it is a noble ruin stands not aleague from my chateau in Blanque.The Ste. Valeries and the D'Arthenayswere always friends, since Adam was,and till the Grand Monarque separatedthem with his accursed Revocation.Monsieur, that I am enchanted at thisrencounter! La bonne aventure, oh gai!n'est-ce pas, mon pere "

There was no resisting his eager gaiety.And when he quoted the nursery songthat my mother used to sing, mystubborn resentment at what who cansay broke and melted away, and I wassmiling back into the bright, merry eyes.

Once more he held out his hand, andthis time I took it gladly. FatherL'Homme-Dieu looked on in delight; itwas a good moment.

After that the talk flowed freely. Ifound that the young marquis, havingcome on a pleasure tour to the UnitedStates, had travelled thus far out of thegeneral route to look up the graves ofsome of his mother's people, who hadcome out with Baron Castine, but hadleft him, as my ancestor had done, onaccount of his marriage with theIndian princess. They were theBelleforts of Blanque.

"Bellefort!" I cried. "That name is on

several stones in our old burying-ground. The Belforts of our village aretheir descendants, Father L'Homme-Dieu."

"Not Ham " cried the father, burstinginto a great laugh. "Not Ham Belfort,Jacques "

I laughed back, nodding. "Just Ham,father!"

I never saw Father L'Homme-Dieu soamused. He struck his hands together,and leaned back in his chair, repeatingover and over, "Ham Belfort! Cousinof the Marquis de Ste. Valerie! HamBelfort! Is it possible "

The young nobleman looked from oneto the other of us curiously.

"But what " he asked. "Ham! c'est-a-dire,jambon, n'est-ce pas "

"It is also a Biblical name, marquis!"said Father L'Homme-Dieu. "I mustask who taught you your catechism!"

"True! true!" said the marquis, slightlyconfused. "Sem, Ham, et Japhet, perfectly!and I have a cousin, it appears, namedJam I should say, Ham Will you lead meto him, M. D'Arthenay, that I embracehim "

"You shall see him!" I said. "I don'tthink Ham is used to being embraced,but I will leave that to you. I will takeyou to see him, and to see the graves inthe burying-ground, whenever you say."

"But now, at the present time, thisinstant!" cried Ste. Valerie, springingfrom his chair. "Here is FatherL'Homme-Dieu dying of me, in despairat his morning broken up, his studiesdestroyed by chatter. Take me with you,D'Arthenay, and show me all things;Ham, also his brothers, and Noe andthe Ark, if they find themselves alsohere. Amazing country! astonishingpeople!"

So off we went together, he promisingMrs. Sparrow to return in time fordinner, and informing her that she wasa sylphide, which caused her to say,"Go along!" in high delight. He hadbrought a letter to the priest, from anold friend, and was to stay at the house.

Back across the brown fields we went. Iwas no longer alone; the world was fullof new light, new interest. I felt that itwas good to be alive; and when mycompanion began to sing in verylightness of heart, I joined in, and sangwith right good will.

"La bonne aventure, oh gai! La bonneaventure!"

He told me that his mother always sanghim this song when he had been agood boy; I replied that mine had donethe same. How many French mothershave sung the merry little lilt, I wonderWe sang one snatch and another, and Icould not see that the marquise hadhad the advantage of the little peasantgirl, if it came to songs.

The marquis but why should I keep tothe empty title, which I was never touse after that first hour Nothing woulddo but that we should be friends on theinstant, and for life, Jacques and Yvon."Thus it was two centuries ago," mycompanion declared, "thus shall it be

now!" and I, in my dream ofwonderment and delight, was only tooglad to have it so.

We talked of a thousand things; or, tobe precise, he talked, and I listened.What had I to say that could interesthim But he was full of the wonders oftravel, the strangeness of the new worldand the new people. Niagara hadshaken him to the soul, he told me; onthe wings of its thunder he had soaredto the empyrean. How his fancifulturns of expression come back to meas I write of him! He was proud of hisEnglish, which was in generalsurprisingly good.

New York he did not like, a savage in aParis gown, with painted face; but onBoston he looked with the eyes of alover. What dignity! what Puritan, whatmaiden grace of withdrawal! AnAmerican city, where one feels oneselfnot a figure of chess, but a humanbeing; where no street resembles theone before it, and one can wander andbe lost in delicious windings! Ah! inBoston he could live, the life of a poet,of a scholar.

"And then, what, my friend I come, Ileave those joys, I come away here, to tothe locality of jump-off, as you say, andwhat do I find First, a pearl, a saint; fornobleness, a prince, for holiness, an

anchorite of Arabia, Le PereL'Homme-Dieu! Next, the ancientfriend of my house, who becomes onthe instant mine also, the brother forwhom I have yearned. With these, thegraves of my venerable ancestors,heroes of constancy, who lived for warand died for faith; graves where I goeven now, where I kneel to pay my dutyof respect, to drop the filial tear!"

"Don't forget your living relations!" Isaid, with some malice. "Here is yourcousin, coming to meet us."

FOOTNOTE:

[3] Pronounced Jakes Dee Arthenay.

CHAPTER V.

AN ox-team was lumbering along theroad towards us. The huge oxenlurched from side to side, half-asleep,making nothing of their load of meal-sacks piled high in air; their driverwalked beside, half-asleep, too. He wasa giant in height (six foot six, Melody, inhis stockings! I have measured himmyself), and his white clothes madehim look something monstrous indeed.Yvon stared and gaped, as this visioncame slowly towards him.

"What what is it " he asked. "Is it amonster "

"Oh, no!" I said. "It's only Ham Belfort.How are you, Ham "

"Smart!" said Ham. "How be youHoish, Star! haw! Stand still there, willye "

The oxen came to a halt willinglyenough, and man and beasts stoodregarding us with calm, friendly eyes.Ham and his oxen looked so muchalike, Melody (the oxen were white, Iought to have said), that I sometimesthought, if we dressed one of thebeasts up and did away with his horns,

people would hardly know which waswhich.

"Taking a load over to Cato "

Cato was the nearest town, my dear. Itwas there that the weekly boat touched,which was our one link with the worldof cities and railways.

Ham nodded; he was not given tounnecessary speech.

"Is your wife better I heard she waspoorly."

"No, she ain't! I expect she'll turn upher toes now most any day."

This seemed awkward. I muttered someexpressions of regret, and was about tomove on, when my companion, whohad been gazing speechless andmotionless at the figure before him,caught my arm.

"Present me!" he whispered. "HolyBlue! this is my cousin, my own blood!Present me, Jacques!"

Now, I had never had occasion to makea formal introduction in my life,Melody. I had not yet begun to act asmaster of ceremonies at balls, only asfiddler and call-man; and it is the livingtruth that the only form of words I

could bring to mind at the momentwas, "Gents, balance to partners!" Ialmost said it aloud; but, fortunately,my wits came back, and I stammeredout, sorely embarrassed:

"Ham, this is a gentleman who who isstaying with Father L'Homme-Dieu."

"That so Pleased to meet you!" andHam held out a hand like a shoulder ofmutton, and engulfed the marquis'sslender fingers.

"I am delighted to make theacquaintance of Mr. Belfort," said Ste.Valerie, with winning grace. "I pleasemyself to think that we are related by

blood. My mother was a Bellefort ofBlanque; it is the French form of yourname, Mr. Belfort."

"I want to know!" said Ham. "Darnedpleased to meet you!" He laboured for amoment, casting a glance of appeal atthe oxen, who showed no dispositionto assist him; then added, "You're slim-appearin' for a Belfort; they runconsid'able large in these parts."

"Truly, yes!" cried the marquis, laughingdelightedly. "You desire to show theworld that there are still giants. Whatpleasure, what rapture, to go throughthe crowd of small persons, as myself,as D'Arthenay here, and exhibit the

person of Samson, of Goliath!"

Ham eyed him gravely. "Meanin' shows" he asked, after a pause of reflection."No, we've never shew none, as I knowof. We've been asked, father 'n' I, toallow guessin' on our weight at fairsand sech, but we jedged it warn't jestwhat we cared about doin'. Sim'lar withshows!"

This speech was rather beyond Ste.Valerie, and seeing him look puzzled, Istruck in, "Mr. Ste. Valerie wants to seethe old graves in the old burying-ground, Ham. I told him there wereplenty of Belforts there, and spellingthe name as he does, with two l's and an

e in the middle."

"I want to know if he spells it thatway!" said Ham, politely. "We jedgedthey didn't know much spellin', in themtimes along back, but I presume there'sdifferent idees. Does your folks runslim as a rule "

"Very slim, my cousin!" said Yvon. "Ofmy generation, there is none so great asmyself."

"I want to know!" said Ham; and thegrave compassion in his voice wasalmost too much for my composure.He seemed to fear that the subjectmight be a painful one, and changed it

with a visible effort.

"Well, there's plenty in the old berr'in-ground spelt both ways. Likely it don'tmatter to 'em now."

He pondered again, evidentlycomposing a speech; again hedemanded help of the oxen, and wentso far as to examine an ear of the nighox with anxious attention.

"'Pears as if what Belforts is above thesod ought to see something of ye!" hesaid at last. "My woman is sick, andliable to turn I should say, liable to passaway most any time; but if she shouldget better, or anything I should be

pleased to have ye come and stop aspell with us at the grist-mill. Any ofyour folks in the grist business "

"Grisst " Ste. Valerie looked helplesslyat me. I explained briefly the nature ofa grist-mill, and said truly that Ham'smill was one of the pleasantest placesin the neighbourhood. Yvon wasenchanted. He would come with themost lively pleasure, he assured Ham,so soon as Madame Belfort's healthshould be sufficiently rehabilitated. Iremember, Melody, the pride withwhich he rolled out that long word, andthe delight with which he looked at me,to see if I noticed it.

"Meantime," he added, "I shall haste atthe earliest moment to do myself thehonour to call, to make inquiries forthe health of madame, to present myrespectful homages to monsieur yourfather. He will permit me to embracehim as a son "

Fortunately Ham only heard the firstpart of this sentence; he respondedheartily, begging the marquis to call atany hour. Then, being at the end of histalk, he shook hands once more withponderous good will, and passed on,he and the oxen rolling along withequal steps.

Ste. Valerie was silent until Ham was

out of earshot; then he broke out.

"Holy Blue! what a prodigy! You sufferthis to burst upon me, Jacques, withoutnotice, without preparation. My nervesare permanently shattered. You tell me,a man; I behold a tower, a mountain,Atlas crowned with clouds! Thousandthunders! what bulk! what sinews! andof my race! Amazing effect of whatClimate occupation In France, this raceshrinks, diminishes; a rapier, keen ifyou will, but slender like a thread; here,it swells, expands, towers aloft, a clubof Hercules. And with my father, whocould sit in my pocket, and mygrandfather, who could sit in his!Figure to yourself, Jacques, that I am

called le grand Yvon!" He was silent for amoment, then broke out again. "Butthe mind. D'Arthenay! the brain; how isit with that Thought, a lightning flash!is it not lost, wandering through a headlarge like that of an ox "

I cannot remember in what words Ianswered him, Melody. I know I wastroubled how to make it clear to him,and he so different from the other. Iseemed to stand midway between thetwo, and to understand both. Half ofme seemed to spring up in joy at thevoice of the young foreigner; hislightness, his quickness, the very way hemoved his hands, seemed a part of myown nature that I had not learned to

use, and now saw reflected in another. Iam not sure if I make myself clear, mychild; it was a singular feeling. Butwhen I would spring forward with him,and toss my head and wave my handsas he did, as my mother Marie did,there was something held me back; itwas the other nature in me, slow andsilent, and no! not cold, but loath toshow its warmth, if I may put it so. Myfather in me kept me silent many a timewhen I might have spoken foolishness.And it was this half, my father's half,that loved Ham Belfort, and saw thesolid sweetness of nature that madethat huge body a temple of good will,so to speak. He had the kind ofgoodness that gives peace and rest to

those who lean against it. His mill wasone of the places but we shall come tothat by and by!

Walking on as we talked, we soon cameto the village, and I begged my newfriend to come in and see my father andmy home. We entered. My father wasstanding by the fire, facing the door,with one hand on the tall mantel-shelf.He was in one of his waking dreams,and I was struck deeply, Melody, by thebeauty, and, if I may use the wordabout a plain man, the majesty of hislooks. My companion was struck, too,for he stopped short, and murmuredsomething under his breath; I heard theword "Noblesse," and thought it not

amiss. My father's eyes (they wereextraordinarily bright and blue) werewide open, and looked through us andbeyond us, yet saw nothing, or nothingthat other eyes could see; the tenderlook was in them that meant thethought of my mother. But Abby camequietly round from the corner whereshe sat sewing, and laid her hand on hisarm, and spoke clearly, yet not sharply,telling him to look and see, Jakey hadbrought a gentleman to see him. Thenthe vision passed, and my father lookedand saw us, and came forward with astately, beautiful way that he could use,and bade the stranger welcome. Ste.Valerie bowed low, as he might to aprince. Hearing that he was a

Frenchman, my father seemed pleased."My dear wife was a Frenchwoman!" hesaid. "She was a musician, sir; I wishyou could have heard her play."

"He was himself also of Frenchdescent," Ste. Valerie reminded him,with another bow; and told of theruined tower, and the old friendshipbetween the two houses. But my fathercared nothing for descent.

"Long ago, sir!" he said. "Long ago! Ihave nothing to do with the dead oftwo hundred years back. I am a plainfarmer; my son has learned the trade ofshoemaking, though he also has someskill with the fiddle, I am told. Nothing

compared to his mother, but still someskill."

Ste. Valerie looked from one of us tothe other. "A farmer, a shoemaker!" hesaid, slowly. "Strange country, this! Andwhile your vieille noblesse make shoes andtill the soil, who are these, monsieur,who live in some of the palaces that Ihave seen in your cities In many, truly,persons of real nobility also, gentlemen,whether hunting of race or of Nature'sown. But these others I have seen them;large persons, both male and female,red as beef, their grossness illuminatedwith diamonds of royalty, theirdwelling a magazine from the Rue de laPaix. These things are shocking to a

European, M. D'Arthenay!" My fatherlooked at him with something likereproof in his quiet gaze.

"I have never been in cities," he said. "Iconsider that a farmer's life may beused as well as another for the glory ofGod."

Then, with a wave of his hand, heseemed to put all this away from him,and with a livelier air asked the strangerto take supper with us. Abby had beenlaying the cloth quietly while we weretalking, and my father would haveasked her to sit down with us, but sheslipped away while his face was turnedin the other direction, and though he

looked once or twice, he soon forgot.Poor Abby! I had seen her looking athim as he talked, and was struck by herintent expression, as if she would notlose a word he might say. It seemednatural, though, that he should be herfirst thought; he had always been, sincemy mother died.

So presently we three sat about the littletable, that was gay with flowers andpretty dishes. I saw Ste. Valerie'swondering glances; was it thus, heseemed to ask, that a farmer lived, whohad no woman to care for him Myfather saw, too, and was pleased as Ihad rarely seen him. He did not smile,but his face seemed to fill with light.

"My wife, sir," he said, "loved to seethings bright and adorned. I try my sonand I try to keep the table as she wouldlike it. I formerly thought these matterssinful, but I have been brought to aclearer vision, through affliction."(Strange human nature, Melody, mychild! he was moved to say these wordsto a stranger, which he could not havesaid to me, his son!) "She had theFrench taste and lightness, my wifeMary. I should have been proud tohave you see her, sir; the Lord wasmindful of His own, and took heraway from a world of sin andsuffering."

The light died out; his eyes wanderedfor a moment, and then set, in a way Iknew; and I began to talk fast of thefirst thing that came into my mind.

CHAPTER VI.

I COULD write a whole book aboutthe summer that followed this springday, when I first met Yvon de Ste.Valerie. Yes, and the book would be solong that no mortal man would havetime to read it; but I must hurry onwith my story; for truth to tell, my eyesare beginning to be not quite what theyhave been, they'll serve my time, I hope,

but my writing was always small andcrabbed, and I must say what I have tosay, shorter than I have begun, Iperceive. After the first week, then,which he spent with Father L'Homme-Dieu, Yvon came over to our villageand boarded with Abby Rock. TheFather was pleased to have him come;he knew it would be a great thing forme, and he thought it would not hurtthe young gentleman to live for a timewith plain folks. But if he thoughtYvon would look down on our villagepeople, or hold himself better thanthey, he was mistaken. In a week theyoung Frenchman was the son andbrother of the whole village. Ourpeople were dear, good people, Melody;

but I sometimes thought them a littledull; that was after my mother's death. Isuppose I had enough of anothernature in me to be troubled by this, butnot enough to know how to help it;later I learned a little more; but indeed,I should justly say that my lessons werebegun by Yvon de Ste. Valerie. It wasfrom him I learned, my dear, thatnothing in this world of God's is dullor common, unless we bring dull heartsand dim eyes to look at it. It is thevision, the vision, that makes the life;that vision which you, my child, withyour sightless eyes, have more clearlythan almost any one I have known.

He was delighted with everything. He

wanted to know about everything. Hedeclared that he should write a book,when he returned to France, all aboutour village, which he called Paradise. Itis a pretty place, or was as I rememberit. He must see how bread was made,how wool was spun, how rugs werebraided. Many's the time I have foundhim sitting in some kitchen, windingthe great balls of rags neatly cut andstitched together, listening like a childwhile the woman told him of howmany rugs she had made, and howmany quilts she had pieced; and shemore pleased than he, and thinking himone wonder and herself another.

He was in love with all the girls; so he

said, and they had nothing to sayagainst it. But yet there was no girlcould carry a sore heart, for he treatedthem all alike. In this I have thoughtthat he showed a sense and kindnessbeyond his years or his seeminggiddiness; for some of them might wellenough have had their heads turned bya gentleman, and one so handsome,and with a tongue that liked better tosay "Angel!" to a woman than anythingmore suited to the average of the sex.But no girl in the village could thinkherself for a moment the favouredmaiden; for if one had the loveliest eyesin the world, the next had a cheek ofroses and velvet, and the third walkedlike a goddess, and the fourth charmed

his soul out of his body every time sheopened her lips. And so it went on, tillall understood it for play, and thepleasantest play they ever saw. But hevowed from the first that he wouldmarry Abby Rock, and no other livingwoman. Abby always said yes, shewould marry him the first Sunday thatcame in the middle of the week; andthen she would try to make him eatmore, though he took quite as much aswas good for him, not being used toour hearty ways, especially in themornings. Abby was as pleased withhim as a child with a kitten, and it waspretty to see them together.

"Light of my life!" Yvon would cry.

"You are exquisite this morning! Youreyes are like stars on the sea. Come,then, angelic Rock, Rocher des Anges, andwaltz with your Ste. Valerie!" And hewould take Abby by the waist, and tryto waltz with her, till she reached forthe broomstick. I have told you,Melody, that Abby was the homeliestwoman the Lord ever made. Not that Iever noticed it, for the kindness in herface was so bright I never saw anythingbut that; but strangers would speak ofit, and Yvon himself, before he heardher speak, made a little face, Iremember, that only I could see, andwhispered, had I brought him to lodgewith Medusa Medusa, indeed! I thinkAbby's smile would soften any stone

that had ever had a human heartbeating in it, instead of the other way.

But the place in the village that Yvonloved best was Ham Belfort's grist-mill;and when he comes to my mind, inthese days, when sadder visions aresoftened and partly dim to me, it ismostly there that I seem to see myfriend.

It was, as I have said, one of thepleasantest places in the world. Tobegin with, the colour and softness ofit all! The window-glass was powderedwhite, and the light came through whiteand dim, and lay about in longpowdery shafts, and these were white,

too, instead of yellow. So was the verydust white; or rather, it was goodoatmeal and wheat flour that lay thickand crumbling on the rafters above,and the wheels and pulleys and othergear. As for Ham, the first time Yvonsaw him in the mill, he cried out "MontBlanc!" and would not call himanything else for some time. For Hamwas whiter than all the rest, in hisworking-dress, cap and jacket andbreeches, white to begin with, andpowdered soft and furry, like his faceand eyebrows, with the flying meal.Down-stairs there was plenty of noise;oats and corn and wheat pouring intothe hoppers, and the great stones goinground and round, and wheels creaking

and buzzing, and belts droningoverhead. Yvon could not talk at allhere, and I not too much; only Ham'sgreat voice and his father's (old Mr.Belfort was Ham over again, gray underthe powder, instead of pink andbrown) could roar on quietly, if I mayso express it, rising high above the rattleand clack of the machinery, and yetpeaceful as the stream outside thatturned the great wheels and set thewhole thing flying. So, as he could notlive long without talking, Yvon lovedbest the loft above, where the corn wasstored, both in bags and unground, andwhere the big blowers were, and the oldgreen fire-engine, and many othercurious things. I had known them all

my life, but they were strange to him,and he never tired, any more than if hehad been a boy of ten. Sometimes Iwondered if he could be twenty-two, ashe said; sometimes when he wouldswing himself on to the slide, wherethe bags of meal and flour were loadedon to the wagons. Well, Melody, it was athing to charm a boy's heart; it makesmine beat a little quicker to think of it,even now; perhaps I was not muchwiser than my friend, after all. This wasa slide some three feet wide, and sayseven or eight feet long, sloping justenough to make it pleasant, andpolished till it shone, from the bags thatrubbed along it day after day, loadingthe wagons as they backed up under it.

Nothing would do but we must slidedown this, as if, I say, we were childrenof ten years old, coming down astrideof the meal-sacks, and sending a plumpof flour into the air as we struck thewagon. Father Belfort thought Yvonwas touched in the brain; but he was allthe more gentle on this account. Boyswere not allowed on the slide, unless itwere a holiday, or some boy had had ahard time with sickness or what not; itwas a treat rarely given, and the moreprized for that. But Yvon and I mightslide as much as we pleased. "Keep himcheerful, Jakey!" the dear old manwould say. "Let him kibobble all he's amind to! I had a brother once waslooney, and we kep' him happy all his

life long, jest lettin' him stay a child, asthe Lord intended. Six foot eight hestood, and weighed four hundredpounds."

And when the boy was tired of playingwe would sit down together, and call toHam to come up and talk; for evenbetter than sliding, Yvon loved to hearhis cousin talk. You can take the pictureinto your mind, Melody, my dear. Thelight dim and white, as I have told you,and very soft, falling upon rows androws of full sacks, ranged like soldiers;the great white miller sitting with hisback against one of these, and his legsreaching anywhere, one would not limitthe distance; and running all about him,

without fear, or often indeed markinghim in any way, a multitude of littlebirds, sparrows they were, who spentmost of their life here among the meal-sacks. Sometimes they hopped on hisshoulder, or ran over his head, but theynever minded his talking, and he satstill, not liking to disturb them. It was apretty sight of extremes in bulk, and innature too; for while Ham was afraid tomove, for fear of troubling them, theywould bustle up to him and cock theirheads, and look him in the eye as ifthey said, "Come on, and show mewhich is the biggest!"

There you see him, my dear; andopposite to him you might see a great

mound or heap of corn that shoneyellow as gold. "Le Mont d'Or," Yvoncalled it; and nothing would do but hemust sit on this, lifted high above us,yet sliding down every now and then,and climbing up again, with the yellowgrains slipping away under him,smooth and bright as pebbles on theshore. And for myself, I was now hereand now there, as I found it morecomfortable, being at home in everypart of the friendly place.

How we talked! Ham was mostly asilent fellow; but he grew to love thelad so that the strings of his tonguewere loosened as they had never beenbefore. His woman, too (as we say in

those parts, Melody; wife is the moregenteel expression, but I never heardHam use it. My father, on the otherhand, never said anything else; adifference in the fineness of ear, mydear, I have always supposed), hiswoman, I say, or wife, had not "turnedup her toes," but recovered, and as hewas a faithful and affectionate man, hisheart was enlarged by this also.However it was, he talked more inthose weeks, I suppose, than in the restof his life put together. Bits of his talk,homely and yet wise, come back to meacross the sixty years. One day, Iremember, we talked of life, as youngmen love to talk. We said nothing thathad not been said by young men since

Abel's time, I do suppose, but it was allnew to us; and indeed, my twocompanions had fresh ways of puttingthings that seemed to make them theirown in a manner. Yvon maintained thatgaiety was the best that life had to give;that the butterfly being the type of thehuman soul, the nearer man couldcome to his prototype, the better forhim and for all. Sorrow and suffering,he cried, were a blot on the scheme, amistake, a concession to the devil; if allwould but spread their wings and flyaway from it, houp! it would no longerexist. "Et voila!"

We laughed, but shook our heads. Hammeditated awhile, and then began in his

strong, quiet voice, a little husky, whichI always supposed was from hisswallowing so much raw meal andflour.

"That's one way of lookin' at it, Eavan;I expect that's your French view, likely;looks different, you see, to folks livin'where there's cold, and sim'lar things, asbutterflies couldn't find not to saycomfortable. Way I look at it, it alwaysseemed to me that grain come as near itas anything, go to compare things.Livin' in a grist-mill, I presume, I gitinto a grainy way of lookin' at theworld. Now, take wheat! It comes uppooty enough, don't it, in the fieldsShow me a field o' wheat, and I'll show

you as handsome a thing as is made thisside of Jordan. Wal, that might be alittle child, we'll say; if there's a thinghandsomer than a field o' wheat, it's alittle child. But bimeby comes reapin'and all, and then the trouble begins.First, it's all in the rough, ain't it, chaffand all, mixed together; and has to gothrough the thresher Well, maybe that'sthe lickin's a boy's father gives him. Hedon't like 'em, I can feel Father Belfort'slickin's yet, but they git red of a sight o'chaff, nonsense, airs, and what not, forhim. Then it comes here to the grist-mill. Well, I may be gittin' a little mixed,boys, but you can foller if you try, Iexpect. Say that's startin' out in life,leavin' home, or bindin' to a trade, or

whatever. Well, it goes into the duster,and there it gets more chaff blowedoff'n it. And from the duster it goesinto the hopper, and down in betwixtthe stones; and them stones grind,grind, grind, till you'd think the life wasground clear'n out of it. But 'tain't so;contrary! That's affliction; the upperand nether millstone Scriptur! Maybesickness, maybe losin' your folks, maybebusiness troubles, whichever comes isthe wust, and more than any mortalman ever had to bear before. Well, now,see! That stuff goes in there, grain; itcomes out wheat flour! Then you takeand wet it down and put your 'east in,that's thought, I expect, or brains, ormight be a woman, and you bake it in

the oven, call that well, 'git-up-and-git'is all I can think of, but I should aimfor a better word, talkin' to a foreigner."

"Purpose," I suggested.

"That's it! purpose! bake it in that oven,and you have a loaf of wheat bread, rizbread; and that's the best eatin' that'sben invented yet. That's food for thehungry, which raw wheat ain't, exceptit's cattle. But now you hear me, boys!To git wheat bread, riz bread, you'vegot to have wheat to begin with. You'vegot to have good stuff to start with.You can't make good riz bread out o'field corn. But take good stuff andgrind it in the Lord's mill, and you've

got the best this world can give. That'smy philos'phy!"

He nodded his head to the last words,which fell slowly and weightily; and ashe did so, the sparrow that had beenperched on his head ran down his noseand fluttered in his face, seeming to askhow he dared make such a disturbance."I beg your pardon, I'm sure!" saidHam. "I'd no notion I was interferin'with you. Why didn't you hit one ofyour size "

CHAPTER VII.

IT was in the grist-mill loft, too, thatYvon brought forward his great plan,what he called the project of his life,that of taking me back to France withhim. I remember how I laughed whenhe spoke of it; it seemed as easy for meto fly to the moon as to cross theocean, a thing which none of myfather's people had done since the firstsettlers came. My mother, to be sure,had come from France, but that was adifferent matter; nor had her talk of thesea made me feel any longing for it. ButYvon had set his heart on it; and hisgay talk flowed round and over myobjections, as your brook runs overstones. I must go; I should go! I shouldsee my tower, the castle of my fathers.

It was out of repair, he could not denythat; but what! a noble chateau mightstill be made of it. Once restored, Iwould bring my father over to end hisdays with me, under the roof that alonecould properly shelter a person of suchnobility. He had won my father's heart,too, Melody, as he won all hearts; theyunderstood each other in some fine,far-off way, that was beyond me. Isometimes felt a little pang that wasnot, I am glad to believe, jealousy, onlya wish that I might be more like Yvon,more like my mother's people, since itwas that so charmed my poor father.

I asked Yvon how I was to live, howmy father and I should support

ourselves in our restored castle, andwhose money would pay for therestoration. He threw this aside, andsaid that money was base, and herefused to consider it. It had nothing todo with the feelings, less than nothingwith true nobility. Should I then takemy cobbler's bench, I asked him, andmake shoes for him and hisneighbours, while my father tilled theground But then, for the first andalmost the last time, I saw my friendangry; he became like a naughty, sulkychild, and would hardly speak to me forthe rest of the day.

But he clung to his idea, none the less;and, to my great surprise, my father

took it up after awhile. He thoughtwell, he told me, of Yvon's plan; Yvonhad talked it over with him. He,himself, was much stronger than he hadbeen (this was true, Melody, or nothingwould have induced me to leave himeven for a week; Yvon had been like acordial to him, and he had not had oneof his seizures for weeks); and I couldperfectly leave him under Abby's care. Ihad not been strong myself, a voyagemight be a good thing for me; and nodoubt, after seeing with my own eyesthe matters this young lad talked of, Iwould be glad enough to come homeand settle to my trade, and would havemuch to think over as I sat at mybench. It might be that a man was

better for seeing something of theworld; he had never felt that the Lordintended him to travel, having broughtto his own door all that the world heldof what was best (he paused here, andsaid "Mary!" two or three times underhis breath, a way he had when anythingmoved him), but it was not so with me,nor likely to be, and it might be a goodthing for me to go. He had money laidby that would be mine, and I could takea portion of that, and have my holiday.

These are not his very words, Melody,but the sense of them. I was strangelysurprised; and being young and eager,the thought came upon me for the firsttime that this thing was really possible;

and with the thought came the longing,and a sense which I had only felt dimlybefore, and never let speak plain to me,as it were. I suppose every young manfeels the desire to go somewhere elsethan the place where he has alwaysabided. The world may be small andwretched, as some tell him, or great andgolden, according to the speech ofothers; he believes neither one nor theother, he must see it with his own eyes.So this grew upon me, and I broodedover it, till my life was full of voicescalling, and hands pointing across thesea, to the place which is SomewhereElse. I talked with Father L'Homme-Dieu, and he bade me go, and gave mehis blessing; he had no doubt it was my

pleasure, and might be my duty, in theway of making all that might be madeof my life. I talked with Abby; she grewpale, and had but one word, "Yourfather!" Something in her tone spokeloud to my heart, and there came intomy mind a thought that I spoke outwithout waiting for it to cool.

"Won't you marry my father, Abby "

Abby's hands fell in her lap, and sheturned so white that I was frightened;still, I went on. "You love him betterthan any one else, except me." (She puther hand on her heart, I remember,Melody, and kept it there while I talked;she made no other sign.)

"And you can care for him ten timesbetter than I could, you know that,Abby, dear; and and I know Mere-Marie would be pleased."

I looked in her face, and, young andthoughtless as I was, I saw that therewhich made me turn away and look outof the window. She did not speak atonce; but presently said in her ownvoice, or only a little changed, "Don'tspeak like that, Jakey dear! You knowI'll care for your father all I can,without that;" and so put me quietlyaside, and talked about Yvon, and howgood Father L'Homme-Dieu had beento me.

But I, being a lad that liked my ownway when it did not seem a wrong one(and not only then, perhaps, my dear;not only then!), could not let my ideago so easily. It seemed to me a finething, and one that would bringhappiness to one, at least; and Iquestioned whether the other wouldmind it much, being used to Abby allhis life, and a manner of cousin to her,and she my mother's first friend whenshe came to the village, and her bestfriend always. I was very young,Melody, and I spoke to my father aboutit; that same day it was, while my mindwas still warm. If I had waited overnight, I might have seen more clear.

"Father," said I; we were sitting in thekitchen after supper; it was a summerevening, soft and fair, but a little fireburned low on the hearth, and he satnear it, having grown chilly this lastyear.

"Father, would you think it possible tochange your condition "

He turned his eyes on me, with anasking look.

"Would you think it possible to marryAbby Rock " I asked; and felt my heartsink, somehow, even with saying thewords. My father hardly seemed to

understand at first; he repeated, "MarryAbby Rock!" as if he saw no sense inthe words; then it came to him, and Isaw a great fire of anger grow in hiseyes, till they were like flame in thedusk.

"I am a married man!" he said, slowly."Are you a child, or lost to decency, thatyou speak of this to a married man "

He paused, but I found nothing to say.He went on, his voice, that was evenwhen he began, dropping deeper, andsinking as I never heard it.

"The Lord in His providence saw fit totake away my wife, your mother, before

sickness, or age, or sorrow could strikeher. I was left, to suffer some small partof what my sins merit, in the land ofmy sojourn. The Lord gave, and theLord hath taken away; blessed be thename of the Lord. But because my wifeMary, my wife Mary" (he lingered overthe words, loving them so), "is aglorified spirit in another world, and Iam a prisoner here, is she any less mywife, and I her faithful husband Youare my son, and hers, hers, Jakey; but ifyou ever say such words to me again,one house will not hold us both." Heturned his head away, and I heard himmurmuring under his breath, "Mary!Mary!" as I have said his way was; and Iwas silent and ashamed, fearing to

speak lest I make matters worse; and sopresently I slipped out and left him;and my fine plan came to naught, saveto make two sad hearts sadder thanthey were.

But it was to be! Looking back, Melody,after fifty years, I am confident that itwas the will of God, and was to be. Inthree weeks from that night, I was inFrance.

I pass over the wonder of the voyage;the sorrowful parting, too, that camebefore it, though I left all well, and myfather to all appearances fully himself. Ipass over these, straight to the nightwhen Yvon and I arrived at his home in

the south of France. We had beentravelling several days since landing,and had stopped for two days in Paris.My head was still dizzy with thewonder and the brightness of it all.There was something homelike, too, init. The very first people I met seemed tospeak of my mother to me, as theyflung out their hands and laughed andwaved, so different from our ways athome. I was to see more of this, and tofeel the two parts in me striving againsteach other; but it is early to speak ofthat.

The evening was warm and bright, aswe came near Chateau Claire; that wasthe name of my friend's home. A

carriage had met us at the station, andas we drove along through a prettycountry (though nothing to NewEngland, I must always think), Yvonwas deep in talk with the driver, whowas an old servant, and full of news. Ilistened but little, being eager to see allmy eyes could take in. Vines swungalong the sides of the road, in a waythat I always found extremely graceful,and wished we might have our grapesso at home. I was marvelling at thestraw-roofed houses and the plots ofland about them no bigger than AbbyRock's best table-cloth, when suddenlyYvon bade pull up, and struck me onthe shoulder. "D'Arthenay, tenez foi!" hecried in my ear; and pointed across the

road. I turned, and saw in the dusk astone tower, square and bold, coveredwith ivy, the heavy growth of years. Itwas all dim in the twilight, but Imarked the arched door, with carvingon the stone work above it, and thegreat round window that stared like ablind eye. I felt a tugging at my heart,Melody; the place stood so lonely andforlorn, yet with a stateliness thatseemed noble. I could not but think ofmy father, and that he stood now likehis own tower, that he would never see.

"Shall we alight now " asked Yvon. "Orwill you rather come by daylight,Jacques, to see the place in beauty ofsunshine "

I chose the latter, knowing that hisfamily would be looking for him; andno one waited for me in La TourD'Arthenay, as it was called in thecountry. Soon we were driving under agreat gateway, and into a courtyard, andI saw the long front of a great stonehouse, with a light shining here andthere.

"Welcome, Jacques!" cried Yvon,springing down as the great dooropened; "welcome to Chateau Claire!Enter, then, my friend, as thy fathersentered in days of old!"

The light was bright that streamed from

the doorway; I was dazzled, andstumbled a little as I went up the steps;the next moment I was standing in awide hall, and a young lady wasrunning forward to throw her armsround Yvon's neck.

He embraced her tenderly, kissing heron both cheeks in the French manner;then, still holding her hand, he turnedto me, and presented me to his sister."This is my friend," he said, "of whomI wrote you, Valerie; M. D'Arthenay, ofLa Tour D'Arthenay, Mademoiselle deSte. Valerie!"

The young lady curtseyed low, andthen, with a look at Yvon, gave me her

hand in a way that made me feel I waswelcome. A proper manner of shakinghands, my dear child, is a thing I havealways impressed upon my pupils.There is nothing that so helps orhinders the first impression, which isoften the last impression. When aperson flaps a limp hand at me, I haveno desire for it, if it were the finesthand in the world; nor do I allow anytricks of fashion in this matter, assometimes seen, with waggling this wayor that; it is a very offensive thing.Neither must one pinch with the finger-tips, nor grind the bones of one'sfriend, as a strong man will be apt todo, mistaking violence for warmth; butgive a firm, strong, steady pressure with

the hand itself, that carries straight fromthe heart the message, "I am glad to seeyou!"

This is a speech I have made manytimes; I have kept the young ladywaiting in the hall while I made it toyou, thereby failing in good manners.

At the first glance, Valerie de Ste.Valerie seemed hardly more than achild, for she was slight and small; myfirst thought was, how like she was toher brother, with the same fair hair anddark, bright blue eyes. She was dressedin a gown of white dimity, very fine,with ruffles at the foot of the skirt, anda fichu of the same crossed on her

breast. I must say to you, my dearMelody, that it was from this first sightof her that I took the habit ofobserving a woman's dress always. Awoman of any age taking pains toadorn herself, it has always seemed tome boorish not to take careful note ofthe particulars of a toilet. Mlle. de Ste.Valerie wore slippers of blue kid, herfeet being remarkably slender and well-shaped; and a blue ribbon about herhair, in the manner of a double fillet.After a few gracious words, she wentforward into a room at one side of thehall, we following, and here I waspresented to her aunt, a lady who hadlived with the brother and sister sincetheir parents' death, a few years before

this time. Of this lady, who was nevermy friend, I will say little. Her firstaspect reminded me of frozen vinegar,carved into human shape; yet she hadfine manners, and excused herself withdignity for not rising to salute us, beinglame, as her nephew knew. For Yvon,though he kissed her hand (a thing Ihad never seen before), I thought therewas little love in the greeting; nor didhe seem oppressed with grief when sheexcused herself also from coming tosup with us.

At supper, we three together at a tablethat was like a small island of warmpleasantness in the great hollow dining-hall, Yvon was full of wild talk, we two

others mostly listening. He hadeverything to tell, about the voyage,about his new friends, all of whomwere noble and beautiful and clever.

"Figure to yourself, Valerie!" he cried. "Ifound our family there; the most noble,the most gigantic persons in the world!Thy cousin Jambon, it is a giant, eightfeet high, at the least. He denies it, he isthe soul of modesty, but I have eyes,and I see. This man has the soul greaterthan his vast body; we have discussedlife, death, in short, the Infinite, wethree, Jambon and Jacques and I. Hehas a father both have fathers! it is thecourse of nature. The father ofD'Arthenay here is a prince, a diamond

of the old rock; ah! if our father ofsainted memory could have known M.D'Arthenay pere, Valerie, he would haveknown the brother of his soul, as theirsons know each other. Not so, JacquesBut le pere Bellefort, Valerie, he isgigantesque, like his son. These rocks,these towers, they have the hearts ofchildren, the smiles of a crowing infant.You laugh, D'Arthenay I say somethingincorrect how then "

He had said nothing incorrect, I toldhim; I only thought it would besurprising to hear Father Belfort crow,as he hardly spoke three times in theday.

"True! but what silence! the silence offullness, of benevolence. Magnificentpersons, not to be approached forgoodness."

So he rattled on, while his sister's blueeyes grew wider and wider. I did not intruth know what to say. I hardlyrecognised our plain people in thehuman wonders that Yvon wasdescribing; I could hardly keep mycountenance when he told her aboutMlle. Roc, an angel of pious dignity. Ifancied Abby transported here, and setdown at this table, all flowers andperfumed fruits and crimson-shadedlights; the idea seemed to me comical,though now I know that Abby Rock

would do grace to any table, if it werethe President's. I was young then, andknew little. And so the lad talked onand on, and his fair young lady sisterlistened and marvelled, and I held mytongue and looked about me, andwondered was I awake or asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE pictures come back fast and thickupon my mind. I suppose every life,even the quietest, has its picture-book,its record of some one time that seemsfilled with beauty or joy as a cup thatbrims over. Every one, perhaps, couldwrite his own fairy story; this is mine.

The next day Yvon had a thousandthings to show me. The ladies sat intheir own room in the morning, andthe rest of the castle was our own. Itamazed me, being a great building, andthe first of the kind I had seen.Terraces of stone ran about the house,except on the side of the courtyard,and these were set with floweringshrubs in great stone pots, that wouldtake two men to lift. Beyond theterraces the ground fell away in softbanks and hollows to where I heard abrook running through a wood-piece.Inside, the rooms, very lofty andspacious, were dark to my eyes, partlyfrom the smallness of the windows,partly from the dark carved wood that

was everywhere, on floor and walls andceilings. I could never be at home, Ithought, in such a place; though I neverfound elsewhere such a fine quality offloor; smooth in the perfect degree, yetnot too slippery for firm treading, andspringing to the foot in a way that wasnext to dance music for suggestion. Isaid as much to Yvon, and he caughtthe idea flying, as was his way, and ranto bring his sister, bidding me get myfiddle on the instant. We were in a longhall, rather narrow, but with excellentspace for a few couples, let alone one.Mlle. de Ste. Valerie came running, herhand in her brother's, a little out ofbreath from his suddenness, and in theprettiest morning dress of blue muslin.

I played my best waltz, and the twowaltzed. This is one of the brightestpictures in my book, Melody. Theyoung lady had perfect grace ofmotion, and had been well taught; Iknew less about the matter than I donow, but still enough to recognise finedancing when I saw it; her brother wasa partner worthy of her. I have seldomhad more pure pleasure in playingdance music, and I should have beenwilling it had lasted all day; but it wasnot long before a sour-faced maid cameand said my Lady had sent her to saymademoiselle should be at her studies;and she ran away laughing, yet sorry togo, and dropped a little running curtseyat the door, very graceful, such as I

have never seen another person make.

The room was darker when she wasgone; but Yvon cried to me I must seethe armory, and the chapel, and ahundred other sights. I followed himlike a child, my eyes very round, Idoubt not, and staring with all mymight. The armory was another of thelong halls or corridors that ran alongthe sides of the courtyard. Here wereweapons of all kinds, but chieflyswords; swords of every possible makeand size, some of great beauty, othersclumsy enough, that looked as if bearsshould handle them. I had never held asword in my hand, how should I butYvon vowed I must learn to fence, and

told some story of an ancestor of minewho was the best swordsman in thecountry, and kept all comers at bay insome old fight long ago. I took thelong bit of springy steel, and found itextraordinary comfortable to the hand.Practice with the fiddle-bow since earlychildhood gave, I may suppose,strength and quickness to the turn ofmy wrist; however it was, the marquiscried out that I was born for the sword;and in a few minutes again cried toknow who had taught me tricks offence. Honesty knows, I had had noteaching; only my eye caught his ownmotions, and my hand and wristanswered instantly, being trained toready obedience. I felt a singular joy in

this exercise, Melody. In grace anddexterity it equals the violin; with thisdifference, which keeps the two thewidth of the world apart, that the onebreeds trouble and strife, while theother may, under Providence, soothehuman ills more than any other onething, save the kindly sound of thehuman voice.

Make the best defence I could, it wasnot long before Yvon sent my foilflying from my hand; but still heprofessed amazement at my readymastering of the art, and I felt trulythat it was natural to me, and that witha few trials I might do as well as he.

Next I must see the chapel, veryancient, but kept smart with candlesand crimson velvet cushions. I couldnot warm to this, feeling the four plainwalls of a meeting-house the only thingthat could enclose my religious feelingswith any comfort; and these not tocompare with a free hillside, or the treesof a wood when the wind moves inthem. And then we went to the stables,and the gardens, laid out very stately,and his sister's own rose garden, thepleasantest place in the whole, or so Ithought.

So with one thing and another, it waslate afternoon before Yvonremembered that I must not sleep again

without visiting my own tower, as hewould call it; and for this, the younglady had leave to go with us. It was ashort walk, not more than half a mile,and in a few minutes we were lookingup at the tower, that seemed older andsadder by day than it had done in theevening dimness. It stood alone. Thebody of what had been behind andbeside it was gone, but we could tracethe lines of a large building, thefoundations still remaining; and hereand there were piles of cut stone, thesame stone as that in the tower. Yvontold me that ever since the castle hadbegun to fall into decay (being longdeserted), the country people aroundhad been in the habit of mending their

houses, and building them indeed,often, from the stone of the oldchateau. He pointed to one cottage andanother, standing around at littledistance. "They are dogs," he cried,"that have each a bit of the lion's skin.Ah, Jacques! but for my father ofblessed memory, thy tower would havegone in the same way. He vowed, whenhe came of age, that this desecrationshould go no further. He brought thepriest, and together they laid a finecurse upon whoever should moveanother stone from the ruins, or layhands on La Tour D'Arthenay. Sincethen, no man touches this stone. Itremains, as you see. It has waited tillthis day, for thee, its propriety."

He had not quite the right word,Melody, but I had not the heart tocorrect him, being more moved by thething than I could show reason for.Inside the tower there was a stonestaircase, that went steeply up one side,or rather the front it was, for from it wecould step across to a wide stone shelfthat stood out under the roundwindow. It might have been part of agreat chimney-piece, such as there stillwere in Chateau Claire. The ivy hadreached in through the empty round,and covered this stone with a thick mat,more black than green. Though readyenough to step on this myself, I couldnot think it fit for Mlle. de Ste. Valerie,

and took the liberty to say so; but shelaughed, and told me she had climbedto this perch a hundred times. She waslight as a leaf, and when I saw her sether foot in her brother's hand andspring across the empty space from thestair to the shelf, it seemed no less thanif a wind had blown her. Soon we wereall three crouching or kneeling on thestone, with our elbows in the curve ofthe great window, looking out on theprospect. A fair one it was, of fieldsand vineyards, with streams windingabout, but very small. They spoke ofrivers, but I saw none. It was the samewith the hills, which Yvon bade me seehere and there; little risings, that wouldnot check the breath in a running man.

For all that, the country was a finecountry, and I praised it honestly,though knowing in my heart that it wasbut a poor patch beside our own. I wasthinking this, when the young ladyturned to me, and asked, in hergracious way, would I be coming back,I and my people, to rebuild ChateauD'Arthenay

"It was the finest in the county, so theold books say!" she told me. "There wasa hall for dancing, a hundred feet long,and once the Sieur D'Arthenay gave aball for the king, Henri Quatre it was,and the hall was lighted with athousand tapers of rose-coloured wax,set in silver sconces. How that must

have been pretty, M. D'Arthenay!"

I thought of our kitchen at home, andthe glass lamps that Mere-Marie keptshining with such care; but before Icould speak, Yvon broke in. "He shallcome! I tell him he shall come, Valerie!All my life I perish, thou knowest it, fora companion of my sex, of my age.Thou art my angel, Valerie, but thou arta woman, and soon, too, thou wilt leaveme. Alone, a hermit in my chateau, myheart desolate, how to support life It isfor this that I cry to the friend of myhouse to return to his country, thecountry of his race; to bring here hisrespected father, to plant a vineyard, alittle corn, a little fruit, briefly, to live.

Observe!" Instantly his hands flutteredout, pointing here and there.

"Jacques, observe, I implore you! Thistower; it is now uninhabited, is it notyou can answer me that, though youhave been here but a day."

As he waited for an answer, I repliedthat it certainly was vacant, so far as Icould see; except that there must bebats and owls, I thought, in thethickness of the ivy trees.

"Perfectly! Except for these animals,there is none to dispute your entrance.The tower is solid, of a solidity!Cannon must be brought, to batter

down these walls. Instead of battering,we restore, we construct. With thesebrave walls to keep out the cold, youconstruct within a dwelling! vast, I donot say; palatial, I do not say; but amplefor two persons, who who have livedtogether, a deux, not requiring separatesuites of apartments." He waved hishand in such a manner that I saw longsets of rooms opening one afteranother, till the eye was lost in them.

"Here, where we now are posed, is yourown room, Jacques. For you this viewof Paradise. Monsieur your father willnot so readily mount the stairs,becoming in future years infirm,though now a tree, an oak, massive and

erect. We build for the future,D'Arthenay! Below, then, the paternalapartments, the salon, perhaps a smallroom for guns and dogs andappliances." Another wave set off asquare space, where we could almostsee the dogs leaping and crouching.

"Behind again, the kitchens, offices,what you will. A few of these stonestransported, erected; glass, carpets, afireplace, the place lives in my eyes,Jacques! Let us return to the chateau,that I set all on paper. You forget that Istudy architecture, that I am adrawsman, hein Ten minutes, a sheet ofdrawing-paper, pff! ChateauD'Arthenay lives before you, ready for

habitation on the instant."

I saw it all, Melody; I saw it all!Sometimes I see it now, in an old man'sdream. Now, of course, it is wild andmisty as a morning fog curling off thehills; but then, it seemed hardly out ofreach for the moment. Listening to myfriend's eager voice, and watching hisglowing face, there came to life in memore and more strongly the part thatanswered to him. I also was young; Ialso had the warm French bloodburning in me. In height, in strength,perhaps even in looks, I was not hisinferior; he was noble, and my fathershad stood beside his in battle,hundreds of times.

I felt in a kind of fire, and courted theheat even while it burned me. Ianswered Yvon, laughing, and saidsurely I would have no other architectfor my castle. Mlle. de Ste. Valeriejoined in, and told me where I shouldbuy carpets, and what flowers I shouldplant in my garden.

"Roses, M. D'Arthenay!" she cried."Roses are the best, for the masses. Afew gillyflowers I advise, they are sosweet; and plenty of lilies, the whiteand yellow. Oh! I have a lily with brownstripes, the most beautiful! you shallhave a bulb of it; I will start it for youmyself, in a stone pot. You must have a

little conservatory, too, for winterplants; one cannot live without flowers,even in winter. All winter, when nolonger many flowers bloom out-of-doors, though always some, always myhardy roses, then I live half my day inthe conservatory. You shall have someof my flowers; oh, yes, I can spare youplenty."

She was so like her brother! There wasthe same pretty eagerness, the same fireof kindliness and good will, hurryingboth along to say they knew not what. Icould only thank her; and the verybeauty and sweetness of her struck allat once a sadness on my merriment;and I saw for a moment that this was

all a fleeting wreath of fog, as I said; yetall the more for that strove to grasp itand hold it fast.

The sun went down behind the lowhills, and the young lady cried that shemust hasten home; her aunt would bevexed at her for staying so long. Yvonsaid, his faith, she might be vexed. IfMlle. de Ste. Valerie might not go outwith her brother, the head of her houseand her natural guardian, he knew notwith whom she might go; and mutteredunder his breath something I did nothear. So we went back to the chateau,and still I was in the bright dream,shutting my eyes when it seemed like tobreak away from me. The evening was

bright and joyous, like the one before.Again we three supped alone, and itseemed this was the custom, theCountess Lalange (it was the name ofthe aunt) seldom leaving her own salon,save to pass to her private apartmentsbeyond it. We spent an hour there, inher salon, that is, after supper, and Imust bring my violin, but not for dancemusic this time. I played all the sweetestand softest things I knew; and now andthen the young lady would clap herhands, when I played one of mymother's songs, and say that her nursehad sung it to her, and how did I learnit, in America They were the peasantsongs, she said, the sweetest in theworld. The lady aunt listened patiently,

but I think she had no music in her;only once she asked if I had no sacredmusic; and when I played our psalm-tunes, she thought them not the thingat all. But last of all, when it was timefor us to go away, I played lightly, andas well as I knew how to play, mymother's favourite song, that was myown also; and at this, the young girl'shead drooped, and her eyes filled withtears. Her mother, too, had sung it!How many other mothers, I ask myselfsometimes, how many hearts, sad andjoyful, have answered to those notes,the sweetest, the tenderest in the world

"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime; Jamais jene t'oublierai!"

CHAPTER IX.

THIS was one day of many, my dear.They came and went, and I thoughteach one brighter than the last. When Ihad been a month at Chateau Claire, Icould hardly believe it more than aweek, so quickly and lightly the timewent. The mornings, two children atplay; the afternoons, three. I suppose itwas because the brother and sister wereso strangely like each other, that I grewso soon to feel Mlle. Valerie as myfriend; and she, sweet soul, took me atYvon's word, and thought me, perhaps,

a fine fellow, and like her own people.That she never fully learned thedifference is one of the many things forwhich I have to thank a gracious God.

Abby Rock told me, Melody, in after-times, when we were much together,how my poor father, at sight of mymother Marie, was struck with love asby a lightning-flash. It was apossession, she would say, only by anangel instead of an evil spirit; at thefirst look, she filled his life, and whileshe lived he wanted nothing else, norindeed after she died. It was not sowith me. And perhaps it might seemstrange to some, my dear child, that Iwrite this story of my heart for you,

who are still a slip of a growing girl,and far yet from womanhood and thethoughts that come with it. But it maybe some years before the paper comesto you, for except my poor father, weare a long-lived race; and I find singularcomfort, now that I cannot keepmyself exercised as much as formerly,by reason of growing years, in thiswriting. And I trust to say nothing thatyou may not with propriety hear, mydear.

When I had been a month at ChateauClaire, then, a new thing began to comeslowly upon me. From the first I hadfelt that this young lady was the fairestand the sweetest creature my eyes had

seen; like a drop of morning dew on arose, nothing less. I dwelt upon thegrace of her motions, and the way thecolour melted in her cheek, as I woulddwell upon the fairest picture; and Ilistened to her voice because it wassweeter than my violin, or even the noteof the hermit-thrush. But slowly Ibecame aware of a change; and insteadof merely the pleasure of eye and ear,and the warmth at the heart that comesfrom true kindliness and friendship,there would fall a trembling on mewhen she came or went, and a sense ofthe room being empty when she wasnot in it. When she was by, I wantednothing more, or so it seemed, but justthe knowledge of it, and did not even

need to look at her to see how the lighttook her hair where it waved above herear. This I take to have been partlybecause the feeling that was growing upin me came not from her beauty, or insmall part only from that, but ratherfrom my learning the truth and purityand nobleness of her nature; and thisknowledge did not require the pleasureof the eyes. I thought no harm of allthis; I took the joy as part of all thenew world that was so bright about me;if voices spoke low within me, tellingof the other life overseas, which wasmy own, while this was but a fairydream, I would not listen, or bade myheart speak louder and drown them.My mind had little, or say rather, my

reason had little to do in those days; tillit woke with a start, if I may say so, onenight. It was a July night, hot and close.We were all sitting on the stone terracefor coolness, though there was littleenough anywhere. I had been playing,and we had all three sung, as we lovedto do. There was a song of a maidenwho fell asleep by the wayside, andthree knights came riding by, a prettysong it was, and sung in three parts, thetreble carrying the air, the tenor highabove it, and the bass making theaccompaniment.

"Le premier qui passa, The first whorode along, 'Voila une endormie!'"Behold! a sleeping maid."

"Le deuxieme qui passa, The next whorode along, 'Elle est encore jolie!' "She'sfair enough!" he said.

"Le troisieme qui passa, The third whorode along, 'Elle sera ma mie!' "Mysweetheart she shall be!"

"La prit et l'emporta, He's borne her faraway, Sur son cheval d'Hongrie." Onhis steed of Hungary.

I was thinking, I remember, how fine itwould be to be a knight on a horse ofHungary (though I am not aware thatthe horses of that country are finerthan elsewhere, except in songs), and to

stoop down beside the road and catchup the sleeping maiden, and I knewhow she would be looking as she slept,and ride away with her no one couldtell where, into some land of gold andflowers.

I was thinking this in a cloudy sort ofway, while Yvon had run into the houseto bring something, some piece ofmusic that I must study, out of thestores of ancient music they had. Therewas a small table standing on theterrace, near where we were sitting, andon it a silver candlestick, with candleslighted.

Mlle. Valerie was standing near this, and

I again near her, both admiring themoon, which was extraordinary brightand clear in a light blue sky. The lightflooded the terrace so, I think we bothforgot the poor little candles, with theirdull yellow gleam. However it was, theyoung lady stepped back a pace, andher muslin cape, very light, andfluttering with ruffles and lace, was inthe candle, and ablaze in a moment. Iheard her cry, and saw the flame springup around her; but it was only a breathbefore I had the thing torn off, and wascrushing it together in my hands, andnext trampling it under foot, treadingout the sparks, till it was naught butblack tinder. A pretty cape it was, and asin to see it so destroyed. But I was not

thinking of the cape then. I had onlyeyes for the young lady herself; andwhen I saw her untouched, save for theend of her curls singed, but pale andfrightened, and crying out that I waskilled, there came a mist, it seemed,before my face, and I dropped on thestone rail, and laughed.

"You are not burned, mademoiselle "

"I no, sir! I am not touched; but youyou oh, your hands! You took it in yourhands, and they are destroyed! Whatshall I do " Before I could move shehad caught my two hands in hers, andturned the palms up. Indeed, they wereonly scorched, not burned deep,

though they stung smartly enough; butblack they were, and the skin beginningto puff into blisters. But now came thetap of a stick on the stone, and Mme.de Lalange came hobbling out. "Whatis this " she cried, seeing me standingso, pale, it may be, with the young ladyholding my blackened hands still inhers.

"What is the meaning of this scene "

"Its meaning " cried Mlle. Valerie; and itwas Yvon's self that flashed upon heraunt.

"The meaning is that this gentleman hassaved my life. Yes, my aunt! Look as

you please; if he had not been here,and a hero, a hero, I should be devouredby the flames. Look!" and she pointedto the fragments of muslin, which werefloating off in black rags. "He caught itfrom me, when I was in flames. Hecrushed it in his hands, these poorhands, which are destroyed, I tell you,with pain. What shall we do, what canwe ever do, to thank him "

The old lady looked from one to theother; her face was grim enough, buther words were courteous.

"We are grateful, indeed, to monsieur!"she said. "The only thing we can do forhim, my niece, is to bind his hands with

soothing ointment; I will attend to thismatter myself. You are agitated, Valerie,and I advise you to go to your ownroom, and let Felice bring you a potion.If M. D'Arthenay will follow me intomy salon, I will see to these injuredhands."

How a cold touch can take the colourout of life. An instant before I was ahero, not in my own eyes, but surely inthose tender blue ones that now shonethrough angry tears, and I knew notwhat sweet folly was springing up inme while she held my hands in hers.Now, I was only a young man withdirty and blackened fingers, standing ina constrained position, and, I make no

doubt, looking a great fool. The younglady vanished, and I followed madameinto the little room. I am bound to saythat she treated my scorched handswith perfect skill.

When Yvon came rushing in a fewminutes later, he had heard the storyfrom his sister, and was for falling onmy neck, and calling me his brother, thesaviour of his cherished sister, I knownot what wild nonsense, Mme. deLalange cut his expressions short. "M.le Marquis," she said, and she put acurious emphasis on the title, Ithought; "M. le Marquis, it will be well,believe me, for you to leave thisgentleman with me for a short time. He

has suffered a shock, more violent thanhe yet realises. His hands are painfullyburned, yet I hope to relieve hissufferings in a few minutes. I suggestthat you retire to your own apartments,where M. D'Arthenay will join you, sayin half an hour."

Generally, Yvon paid little heed to hisaunt, rather taking pleasure in thwartingher, which was wrong, no doubt, yether aspect invited it; but on thisoccasion, she daunted us both. Therewas a weight in her words, a commandin her voice, which I, for one, was notinclined at that moment to dispute; andYvon, after an angry stare, and a fewmuttered words of protest, went away,

only charging me to be with him withinthe half-hour.

Left alone with the ancient lady, therewas silence for a time. I could not thinkwhat she wanted with me; she hadshown no love for my society since Ihad been in the house. I waited,thinking it the part of courtesy to lether begin the conversation, if shedesired any.

Presently she began to talk, in apleasanter strain than I had yet heardher use. Was the pain less severe sheasked; and now she changed the linencloths dipped in something cool andfragrant, infinitely soothing to the

irritated skin. I must have been veryquick, to prevent further mischief; intruth, it was a great debt they owed me,and she, I must believe her, shared thegratitude of her niece and nephew,even though her feelings were lessvivaciously expressed.

I told her it was nothing, and less thannothing, that I had done, and I thoughtthere had been far too much said aboutit already. I was deeply thankful that noharm had come to Mlle. de Ste. Valerie,but I could claim no merit, beyond thatof having my eyes open, and my witsabout me.

She bowed in assent. "Your wits about

you!" she said. "But that in itself is nosmall matter, M. D'Arthenay, I assureyou. It is not every young man who cansay as much. Your eyes open, and yourwits about you You are fortunate,believe me."

Her tone was so strange, I knew notwhat reply to make, if any; again Iwaited her lead.

"The young people with whom I haveto do are so widely different from this!"she said, presently. "Hearts of gold,heads of feather! you must haveobserved this, M. D'Arthenay."

I replied with some warmth that I had

recognised the gold, but not the otherquality. She smiled, a smile that had nomore warmth in it than Februarysunshine on an icicle.

"You are modest!" she said. "I give youcredit for more discernment than youadmit. Confess that you think ourmarquis needs a stronger head besidehim, to aid in his affairs."

I had thought this, but I conceived itno part of my duty to say as much. Iwas silent, therefore, and looked at her,wondering.

"Confess," she went on, "that you sawas much, when he came to your estate

of which the title escapes me in NorthAmerica; that you thought it might bewell for him to have a companion, anadviser, with more definite ideas of life;well for him, and possibly incidentally,of course for the companion "

"Madam!" I said. I could say no more,being confounded past the point ofspeech.

"It is because of this friendly interest inmy nephew," the lady went on, takingno notice of my exclamation. "In mynephew, that I think to give you pleasureby announcing a visit that we areshortly to receive. A guest is expected atChateau Claire in a few days; in fact, the

day after to-morrow. My nephew hasdoubtless spoken to you of theVicomte de Crecy "

I said no, I had heard of no suchperson.

"Not heard of him Unpardonableremissness in Yvon! Not heard of thevicomte Of the future husband ofMlle. de Ste. Valerie "

I took the blow full and fair, my dear. Ithink my father in me kept me fromflinching; but I may have turned whiteas I saw myself an hour after; for afterone glance the woman turned her eyesaway, and looked at me no more as she

spoke on. "It seems hardly credible thateven my nephew's featherpate shouldhave kept you a month in ignorance ofwhat so nearly concerns his sister andour whole family. The vicomte is acharming man, of high polish andnoble descent. His estate adjoins ourson the south. The match was made bymy late brother, the father of Yvon andValerie, shortly before his death. It hadbeen his cherished plan for years, eversince Providence removed thevicomtesse to a better world than this;but Valerie was very young. The matterwas arranged while she was still in theconvent, and since then the vicomte hasbeen travelling, in Russia, India, theworld over, and is but just returned.

The betrothal will be solemnised, now,in a few days."

I feared to speak at the moment. Isnuffed the candle, and, finding myhand steady, tried my voice, which hada good strength, though the sound ofit was strange to me.

"Do they does she know " I asked.

The lady cleared her throat, and lookedor I fancied it a trifle confused. "I havenot yet told my niece and nephew. I theletter came but this evening. There wasa letter also for you, M. D'Arthenay; Iordered it sent to your room. I thinkyour hands will do well now, and I

need no longer detain you from yourfriend."

I stood up before her.

"Madam," I said, "permit me a word. Ihave to thank you for your kindness,and for the hospitality which I havereceived under this kindly roof,whether it were with your will or not.For Mlle. de Ste. Valerie, I wish her alljoy that earthly life can know. If her ifher husband be one half so noble asherself, she cannot fail of happiness. Itis only a princely nature that should bematched with the purity of an angeland the goodness of a saint. Formyself" I paused a moment, finding

myself short of breath; but my strengthwas come back to me. I sought her eyeand held it, forcing her to look at meagainst her will. "For myself, I am nonoble, though there is good blood inmy veins. I am a plain man, the son ofa peasant. But God, madam, who seesyour heart and mine, created, I makebold to remind you, both noble andpeasant; and as that God is above us,you have done bitter wrong to anhonest man. There is no heart of awoman in you, or I would commend toit that fair young creature, who willneed, I think, a woman's tenderness. Ithank you again for your assistance,and I take my leave. And I pray you toremember that, whatever the

D'Arthenays may have been in France,in my country, in America, madam, theypass for men of honour!"

I bowed, and left her; and now,methought, it was she who was white,and I thought there was fear in her eyeswhen she dropped them. But I turnedaway, and, passing Yvon's door, went tomy own room.

CHAPTER X.

THE shock of my awakening was soviolent, the downfall of my air-castlesso sudden and complete, that I think

for awhile I had little sense of whatwas going on. Yvon came to my doorand knocked, and then called; but Imade no answer, and he went away,thinking, I suppose, that I hadforgotten him, and gone to bed. I saton the side of my bed, where I hadthrown myself, great part of that night;and there was no thought of sleep inme. My folly loomed large before me; Isat and looked it in the face. Andsometimes, for a few moments, it wouldnot seem altogether folly. I felt myyouth and strength in every limb of me,and I thought, what could not love dothat was as strong as mine for now Iknew that all these quiet weeks it hadbeen growing to full stature, and that

neither gratitude nor friendship hadany considerable part in my feeling, buthere was the one woman in the worldfor me. And would it be so hard, Iasked, to take her away from all this,and make a home for her in my owngood country, where she should be freeand happy as a bird, with no hatefulwatchers about her path And wouldshe not love the newness, and thegreatness and beauty of it all, and thehomely friends whom her brother sotruly loved Could I not say to her,"Come!" and would she not come withme

Ah! would she not And with that therefell from my eyes as it were scales, even

like the Apostle Paul, with reverence beit said, and I saw the thing in its truelight. My heart said she would come;had not her eyes answered mine lastnight Was there not for her, too, anawakening And if she came, what then

I saw her, the delicate lady, in myfather's house; not a guest, as Yvon hadbeen, but a dweller, the wife anddaughter of the house, the wife of apoor man. I remembered all the workthat my mother Marie had done sojoyfully, so easily, because she was aworking-woman, and these were thethings she had known all her life. Thisform of grace that filled my eyes nowwas no lighter nor more graceful than

hers; but the difference! My mother'slittle brown hands could do any workthat they had strength for, and make it awoman's work in the doing, becauseshe was pure woman in herself; butthese white fingers that had caughtmine last night, what could they doWhat ought they to do, save workdelicately with the needle, and makecordials and sweets (for in this myyoung lady excelled), and beyond thesematters, to play the harp and guitar, andtend her roses, and adorn her ownlovely person

"But," cried the other voice in me, "Iam young and strong, and I can work! Ican study the violin, I can become a

musician, can earn my bread and hers,so that there will be no need of thefarm. It would be a few years of study,a few years of waiting, and she is soyoung!"

Ah, yes! she was so young! and thenthat voice died away, and knew that ithad no more to say. What what wasthis, to think of urging a young girl,still almost a child, to give up thestation of life in which she had livedhappy and joyous, and go away with astranger, far from her own home andher own people, to share a strugglinglife, with no certain assurance ofanything, save love alone What was thisbut a baseness, of which no honest

man could be capable If, if even I hadread her glance aright, last night, or wasit a year ago Still, it was but a thing of amoment, the light springing up of atiny fire of good will, that would dieout in a few days after I was gone, forwant of fuel; even if it were notsnatched out strongly by other hands,as I had put out those climbing flameslast night. How her startled eyes soughtmine! How the colour flashed into herface when I spoke. No! no! Of that Imust not think, if my manhood was tostay in me!

This other, then, who was coming, thisman would turn her thoughts. Shewould yield, as is the custom for young

maidens in France, with no thoughtthat it might be otherwise. He was nolonger young, he had already been oncemarried, I looked up at this moment, Ido not know by what chance, and myeyes fell on a long glass, what they call acheval-glass in France, my dear,showing the whole figure. I think noharm, seeing this was so long ago, insaying that I appeared to advantage insuch a view, being well-made, andperhaps not without other good points.This will seem strangely trifling to you,my child, who see nothing but the soulof man or woman; but I have alwaysloved a good figure, and never feltshame to thank God for giving me one.My clothes were good, having been

bought in Paris as we came through. Ihave never made any claim to pass for agentleman, Melody, but yet I think Imade a fair enough show of one, thatnight at least. And being so constituted,I sat staring at my image in the mirror,and wondering like a fool if the otherman were as good-looking. This wouldbe like a slight crust of contentment,sad enough at that, forming for amoment over the black depth ofsorrow that was my heart; and nextmoment the pain would stab through itagain, till I could have cried out but forthe shame of it; and so the night woreby, and the morning found me stillthere. I had learned little, save the onething that was all the world, that I

could not commit a baseness.

It was strange to me, coming down tobreakfast, to find Yvon unchanged, hisown gay self simply. I was grownsuddenly so old, he seemed no morethan a child to me, with his bits ofsong that yesterday I had joined in witha light heart, and his plans for anotherday of pleasure, like yesterday and allthe days. Looking at him, I could havelaughed, had there been any laughter inme, at the thought of his aunt that Ihad come over with a view to betteringmyself at his expense. It seemed a thingof so little moment; I had half a mindto tell him, but held my peace, wishingher really no evil, since what she had

done had been through love and carefor her own. There might be such menas she had thought me; I have sincefound that there are indeed.

Yvon was full of plans; we were to ridethis afternoon, to such and such aplace; it was the finest view in thecountry, there was nothing to approachit. Pierre should drive over and meet usthere, with peaches, and cream, andcakes, and we would sup, we threetogether, and come home bymoonlight. It would be the very thing!if I really could hold the bridle it wasthe very thing to remove therecollection of last night from hissister's mind, impressionable, as youth

always is. (He said this, Melody, with anair of seventy years, and wisdomineffable, that was comical enough.)"From my own mind," he cried, "nevershall the impression be effaced. Thyheroism, my Jacques, shall be inscribedin the annals of our houses. To save thelife of a Demoiselle de Ste. Valerie isclaim sufficient for undyingremembrance; to save the life of mysister, my Valerie, and you her saviour,the friend of my heart, thecombination is perfect; it is ideal. I shallcompose a poem, Jacques; I havealready begun it. 'Ciel d'argent ' you shallhear it when it has progressed a littlefarther; at present it is in embryomerely."

He sent for his sister, that they mightarrange their plans before she passed toher lessons, which were strictly kept up.She came, and my heart spoke loud,telling me that all my vigil had broughtto me was true, and that I must begone.There was a new softness in her sweeteyes, a tone in her voice, oh, it wasalways kind, but now a tenderness thatI must not hear. She would see myhands; could not believe that I was notseriously wounded; vowed that heraunt was a magician; "though I prayedlong, long, last night, monsieur, that thewounds might heal quickly. They arereally no! look, Yvon! look! theseterrible blisters! but, they are frightful,

M. D'Arthenay. You surely you shouldnot have left your room, in thiscondition "

Not only this, I assured her, but I wasso entirely well that I hoped to ridewith them this afternoon, if the mattercould be arranged. She listened withdelight while Yvon detailed his plan;presently her face fell a little.

"Walk back!" she said. "Yes, Yvon, whatcould be more delightful but when Itell you that the sole is sprung from mywalking-shoe, and it must go to thevillage to be mended! How can I get itback in time "

A thought came to me. "Ifmademoiselle would let me see the shoe" I said. "Perhaps I can arrange it forher." Yvon frowned and pshawed; hedid not like any mention of myshoemaking; this was from nounworthy feeling, but because hethought the trade unsuited to me. I,however, repeated my request, and,greatly wondering, the young lady senta servant for the shoe. I took it in myhand with pleasure; it was not onlybeautiful, but well made. "Here is aneasy matter!" I said, smiling. "Willmademoiselle see how they mend shoesin my country " A hammer was soonfound, and sitting down on a lowbench, I tapped away, and soon had the

pretty thing in order again.Mademoiselle Valerie cried out uponmy cleverness. "But, you can then doanything you choose, monsieur " shesaid. "To play the violin, to save a life,to mend a shoe, do they teach all thesethings in your country and to whatwonderful school did you go "

I said, to none more wonderful than avillage school; and that this I hadindeed learned well, but on thecobbler's bench. "Surely Yvon has toldyou, mademoiselle, of our goodshoemaker, and how he taught me histrade, that I might practise it at timeswhen there is no fiddling needed " Ispoke cheerfully, but let it be seen that I

was not in jest. A little pale, she lookedfrom one of us to the other, notunderstanding.

"All nonsense, Valerie!" cried Yvon,forcing a laugh. "Jacques learnedshoemaking, as he would learnanything, for the sake of knowledge.He may even have practised it here andthere, among his neighbours; why not Ihave often wished I could set a stitch,in time of need, as he has done to-day.But to remain at this trade, it is stuffthat he talks; he does not know his ownnature, his own descent, when hepermits himself to think of such athing. Fie, M. D'Arthenay!"

"No more of that!" I said. "The play isover, mon cher! M. D'Arthenay is a figureof your kind, romantic heart, Yvon.Plain Jacques De Arthenay, farmer'sson, fiddler, and cobbler, stands fromthis moment on his own feet, not thoseof his grandfather four times back."

I did not look at my young lady, notdaring to see the trouble that I knewwas in her sweet face; but I looked fullat Yvon, and was glad rather than sorryat his black look. I could havequarrelled with him or any man whohad brought me to this pass. But justthen, before there could be any morespeech, came the sour-faced maid withan urgent message from Mme. de

Lalange, that both the young lady andthe marquis should attend her in herown room without delay.

Left alone, I found myself consideringthe roses on the terrace, and wonderingcould I take away a slip of one, andkeep it alive till I reached home. In theback of my head I knew what wasgoing on up-stairs in the grim lady'sroom; but I had no mind to lose holdon myself, and presently I went for myfiddle, which was kept in the parlourhard by, and practised scales, a thing Ialways did when out of Yvon'scompany, being what he could notabear. To practise scales is a fine thing,Melody, to steady the mind and give it

balance; you never knew, my child, whyI made you sing your scales so often,that night when your aunt Rejoice waslike to die, and all the house in suchdistress. Your aunt Vesta thought memad, but I was never in better wits.

So I was quiet, when after a long timeYvon came down to me. When I sawthat he knew all, I laid my violin away,agitation being bad for the strings, or soI have always thought. He was in aflame of anger, and fairly stammered inhis speech. What had his aunt said tome, he demanded, the night beforeHow had she treated me, his friend Shewas many things which you knownothing about, Melody, my dear; the

very least of them was cat, and serpent,and traitress. But I took a cool tone.

"Is it true, Yvon," I asked, "about thegentleman who comes to-morrow Youhave already known about it It is true "

"True!" cried Yvon, his passionbreaking out. "Yes, it is true! What, thenBecause my sister is to marry, some day,she is but just out of her pinafores, Itell you, because some day she is tomarry, and the estates are to join, is thata reason that my friend is to beinsulted, my pleasure broken up, mysummer destroyed I insist uponknowing what that cat said to you,Jacques!"

"She told me what you acknowledge," Isaid. "That I can be insulted I deny,unless there be ground for what is said.Mme. de Lalange did what sheconsidered to be her duty; and and Ihave spent a month of great happinesswith you, marquis, and it is a time thatwill always be the brightest of my life."

But at this Yvon flung himself on myneck it is not a thing practised amongmen in this country, but in him itseemed nowise strange, my blood beingpartly like his own and wept andstormed. He loved me, I am glad tobelieve, truly; yet after all the most partwas to him, that his party of pleasure

was spoiled, and his plans broken up.And then I remembered how we hadtalked together that day in the old grist-mill, and how he had said that whentrouble came, we should spread ourwings and fly away from it. And Ham'swords came back to me, too, till I couldalmost hear him speak, and see thegrave, wise look of him. "Take goodstuff, and grind it in the Lord's mill,and you've got the best this world cangive." And I found that Ham'sphilosophy was the one that held.

There was no more question of the gayparty that afternoon. Mlle. de Ste.Valerie did not dine with us, wordcoming down that her head ached, and

she would not go out. Yvon and I wentto walk, and I led the way to my tower(so I may call it this once), thinking Iwould like to see it once more. All thesethree months and more (counting fromthe day I first met Yvon de Ste. Valerieat the priest's house), I had played asecond in the duet, and that rightcheerfully. Though my own age, themarquis was older in many ways fromhis knowledge of society and its ways,and his gay, masterful manner; and I,the country lad, had been too happyonly to follow his lead, and go aboutopen-eyed, seeing all he would show,and loving him with honest admirationand pride in him. But it was curious tosee how from this moment we changed;

and now it was I who led, and was themaster. The master in my own house, Ithought for a moment, as we sat on theshelf under the great round window,and looked out over the lands that hadonce belonged to my people. Here oncemore the dream came upon me, and Ihad a wild vision of myself comingback after years, rich and famous, andbuying back the old tower, building thecastle, and holding that sweet princessby my side. The poet Coleridge, mydear, in describing a man whose witsare crazed, makes use of thisremarkable expression:

"How there looked him in the face Anangel beautiful and bright, And how he

knew it was a fiend, That miserableknight."

This knowledge was also mercifullymine. And I was helped, too, by a thingslight enough, and yet curious. Being indistress of mind, I sought some use ofmy hands, as is the case with mostwomen and some men. I fell to pullingoff the dead leaves of ivy from thewall; and so, running my hand alongthe inside of the window, felt beneathit a carving on the stone. I lifted theleaves, which here were not so thick asin most places, and saw a shield carvedwith arms, and on it the motto I knewwell: "D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

I told my friend that I must be gonethat night; that I knew his aunt desiredit, and was entirely in her right, it beingmost unfitting that a stranger should bepresent on such an occasion as this.Doubtless other friends would becoming, too, and my room would bewanted.

Here he broke out in a storm, andvowed no one should have my room,and I should not stir a foot for ahundred of them. And here had shekept him in the dark, as if he were ababe, instead of the head of the house.It was an affront never to be forgiven.If the vicomte had not been the friendof his father, he would break off the

match, and forbid him the house. As itwas, he was powerless, tied hand andfoot.

I interrupted him, thinking such talkidle; and begged to know what mannerof man this was who was coming. Washe was he the man he should be

He was a gallant gentleman, Yvonconfessed; there was no fault to findwith him, save that he was old enoughto be the girl's father. But that was allone! If he were twenty viscounts, heshould not turn out his, Yvon's friend,the only man he ever cared to call hisbrother, and so on and so on, till I cuthim short. For now I saw no way,

Melody, but to tell him how it was withme; and this I did in as few words asmight be, and begged him to let me goquietly, and say no more. For once, Ithink, the lad was put to such depth ofsorrow as was in him. He had neverguessed, never thought of this; hissister was a child to him, and must beso, he supposed, to all. How could hetell Why had he brought me here, tosuffer He was a criminal! What couldhe do And then there struck him athought, and he glanced up sharply atme, and I saw not the face of myfriend, but one cold and questioning.Had I spoken to his sister Did she

I cut him short at the word. Of that, I

said, he could judge better than I,having been in my company daily forthree months. He fell on my neck again,and implored my pardon; and said, Ithink, that twenty viscounts were lessnoble than I. I cared little for mynobility; all I asked was to get away, andhide my wound among my ownfriendly people.

And so it was arranged that I was to gothat night; and we walked back to thechateau, speaking little, but our heartsfull of true affection, and save for thatone sting of a moment trust in eachother.

CHAPTER XI.

THE disturbance of my mind hadbeen so great, that all this while I hadforgotten the letter of which Mme. deLalange had spoken the night before. Ihad seen it when I first went to myroom, but was in no mood for villagenews then; I saw that it was in the largeround hand of Ham Belfort, andthought it kind in him to write, seeingthat it cost him some effort; then Iforgot it, as I said. But now, going againto my room, and with nothing much todo save wait the hour of my departure,I took the letter up, idly enough,thinking I might as well do this as

another thing. This is what I read,Melody. No fear of my forgetting thewords.

FRIEND JAKEY:

I am sorry to have bad news to sendyou this first time of my writing. Fathersays to prepare your mind, but I neverfound it work that way myself, alwaysliking to know straight out how thingswas, and I think you are the same. Yourfather has been hearty, for him, tillabout a week ago. Then he begun to actstrange, and would go about lookingfor your mother, as if she was aboutthe place. Abby kep watch on him, andI happened in once or twice a day, just

to pass the word, and he was alwaysjust as polite, and would read me yourletters. He thought a sight of yourletters, Jakey, and they gave him morepleasure than likely he'd have had ifyou'd have ben here, being new andstrange to him, so to speak. He was aperfect gentleman; he like to read themletters, and they done credit to him andyou. Last night Abby said to me, sheguessed she would take her things overand stay a spell at the house, till yourfather was some better, he was nothimself, and she owed it to you andyour mother. I said she was right, I'dgone myself, but things wasn't so Icould leave, and a woman is better insickness, however it may be when a

man is well. She went over early thismorning, but your father was gone.There warn't no hide nor hair of himround the house nor in the garding.She sent for me, and I sarched the farm;but while I was at it, seems as if shesensed where he was, and she wentstraight to the berrin-ground, and hewas layin on your mother's grave,peaceful as if he'd just laid down aspell to rest him. He was dead and cold,Jakes, and you may as well know it fustas last. He hadn't had no pain, for whenI see him his face was like he was inheaven, and Abby says it come nearersmiling than she'd seen it sence yourmother was took. So this is what mypaneful duty is to tell you, and that the

Lord will help you threw it is my prayerand alls that is in the village. Abby isreal sick, or she would write herself. Shethought a sight of your father, as Ipresume likely you know. We shall havethe funeral to-morrow, and everythinggood and plain, knowing how hewould wish it from remembering yourmother's. So no more, Friend Jakey;only all that's in the village feels foryou, and this news coming to you faraway; and would like you to feel thatyou was coming home all the same, ifhe is gone, for there aint no one butsets by you, and they all want to see youback, and everybody says it aint thesame place with you away. So I remainyour friend,

HAM BELFORT.

P.S. I'd like you to give my regards toEavan, if he remembers the grist-mill,as I guess likely he doos. Remember theupper and nether millstones, Jakey, andthe Lord help you threw.

H. B.

It is sometimes the bitterest medicine,Melody, that is the most strengthening.This was bitter indeed; yet coming atthis moment, it gave me the strength Ineeded. The sharp sting of this paindulled in some measure that other thatI suffered; and I had no fear of any

weakness now. I do not count itweakness, that I wept over my poorfather, lying down so quietly to die onthe grave of his dear love. In mydistraction, I even thought for amoment how well it was with themboth, to be together now, and wishedthat death might take me and anotherto some place where no foolish thingsof this world should keep us apart; butthat was a boy's selfish grief, and I wasnow grown a man. I read Ham's letterover and over, as well as I could fortears; and it seemed to me a pure fruitof friendship, so that I gave thanks forhim and Abby, knowing her silent forwant of strength, not want of love. Ishould still go home, to the friendly

place, and the friendly people who hadknown my birth and all that had fallensince. I had no place here; I was inhaste to be gone.

At first I thought not to tell Yvon ofwhat had come to me; but he coming inand finding me as I have said, I wouldnot have him mistake my feeling, andso gave him the letter. And let me saythat a woman could not have beentenderer than my friend was, in hissympathy and grieving for me. I havetold you that he and my poor fatherwere drawn to each other from the first.He spoke of him in terms which wereno more than just, but which soothedand pleased me, coming from one who

knew nobility well, both the Europeansense of it, and the other. Upon this,Yvon pressed me to stay, declaring thathe would go away with me, and wewould travel together, till my hurt wassomewhat healed, or at least I hadgrown used to the sting of it; but this Icould not hear of. He helped me putmy things together, for by this timenight was coming on. He had found hissister so suffering, he told me, that shefelt unable to leave her bed; and so hehad thought it best not to tell her ofmy departure till the morrow. And thiswas perhaps the bitterest drop I had todrink, my dear, to leave the house like athief, and no word to her who hadmade it a palace of light to me. Indeed,

when Yvon left me, to order the horses,a thought came into my mind which Ifound it hard to resist. There was a littlebalcony outside my window, and Iknew that my dear love's window (I callher so this once, the pain coming backsharp upon me of that parting hour)opened near it. If I took my violin andstepped outside, and if I played one airthat she knew, then, I thought, shewould understand, at least in part. Shewould not think that I had gonewillingly without kissing her sweethand, which I had counted on doing,the custom of the country permittingit. I took the violin, and went out intothe cool night air; and I laid my bowacross the strings, yet no sound came.

For honour, my dear, honour, which webring into this world with us, andwhich is the only thing, save thoseheavenly ones, that we can take fromthis world with us, laid, as it were, herhand on the strings, and kept themsilent. A thing for which I have eversince been humbly thankful, that Inever willingly or knowingly gave anytouch of pain to that sweet lady's life.But if I had played, Melody; if it hadbeen permitted to me as a man ofhonour as well as a true lover, it was mymother's little song that I should haveplayed; and that, my child, is why youhave always said that you hear my heartbeat in that song.

"Il y a longtemps que je t'aime; Jamais jene t'oublierai!"

Before we rode away, Mme. de Lalangecame out to the door, leaning on hercrutched stick; the horses being alreadythere, and I about to mount. She sweptme a curtsey of surprising depth,considering her infirmity.

"M. D'Arthenay," she said, "I think Ihave done you an injustice. I cannotregret your departure, but I desire tosay that your conduct has been that ofa gentleman, and that I shall alwaysthink of you as noble, and the worthydescendant of a great race." With thatshe held out her hand, which I took

and kissed, conceiving this to be herintention; that I did it with somethingthe proper air her eyes assured me. It isa graceful custom, but unsuited to ourown country and race.

I could only reply that I thanked herfor her present graciousness, and that itwas upon that my thought shoulddwell in recalling my stay here, and notupon what was past and irrevocable;which brought the colour to her drycheek, I thought, but I could saynothing else. And so I bowed, and werode away; my few belongings havinggone before by carrier, all save myviolin, which I carried on the saddlebefore me.

Coming to the Tour D'Arthenay, wechecked our horses, with a commonthought, and looked up at the oldtower. It was even as I had seen it onfirst arriving, save that now a clearmoonlight rested on it, instead of thedoubtful twilight. The ivy was blackagainst the white light, the emptydoorway yawned like a toothlessmouth, and the round eye abovelooked blindness on us. As I gazed, awhite owl came from within, andblinked at us over the curve. Yvonstarted, thinking it a spirit, perhaps; butI laughed, and taking off my hat,saluted the bird.

"Monsieur mon locataire," I said, "I havethe honour to salute you!" and told himthat he should have the castle rent free,on condition that he spared the littlebirds, and levied taxes on the rats alone.

Looking back when we had ridden alittle further, the tower had turned itsback on me, and all I saw was the heapsof cut stone, lying naked in themoonlight. That was my last sight ofthe home of my ancestors. I had keptfaith.

CHAPTER XII.

HERE ends, my dear child, theromance of your old friend's life; if bythe word romance we may rightlyunderstand that which, even if notlasting itself, throws a brightness overall that may come after it. I never sawthat fair country of France again, andsince then I have lived sixty years andmore; but what I brought away with methat sorrowful night has sweetened allthe years. I had the honour of loving assweet a lady as ever stepped fromheaven to earth; and I had the thoughtthat, if right had permitted, and theworld been other than it was, I couldhave won her. Such feelings as these,my dear, keep a man's heart set on highthings, however lowly his lot may be.

I came back to my village. My ownhome was empty, but every house wasopen to me; and not a man or a womanthere but offered me a home for as longas I would take it. My good friend HamBelfort would have me come to be ason to him, he having no children. Butmy duty, as he clearly saw when Ipointed it out, was to Abby Rock; andAbby and I were not to part for manyyears. Her health was never the sameafter my father's death; it was her son Iwas to be, and I am glad to think shefound me a good one.

Father L'Homme-Dieu made me kindlywelcome, too, and to him and to Abby

I could open my heart, and tell them allthat had befallen me in these three life-long months. But I found a strangedifference in their manner of receivingit; for whereas the Father understoodmy every feeling, and would nod hishead (a kind hand on my shoulder allthe while), and say yes, yes, I could nothave done otherwise, and thus it wasthat a gentleman should feel and act,which was very soothing to me, Abby,on the other hand, though she musthear the story over and over again,could never gain any patience in thehearing.

"What did they want " she would cry,her good homely face the colour of a

red leaf. "An emperor would be theleast that could suit them, I'll warrant!"And though she dared not, after thefirst word, breathe anything against mysweet young lady, she felt no such fearabout the old one, and I verily believethat if she had come upon Mme. deLalange, she would have torn her inpieces, being extraordinary strong in herhands. Hag and witch were the kindestwords she could give her; so that at lastI felt bound to keep away from thesubject, from mere courtesy to theabsent. But this, as I have since foundby observation, was the mother-naturein Abby, which will fill the mildestwoman with desire to kill any one thathurts or grieves her child.

For some time I stuck close to myshoemaker's bench, seeking quiet, asany creature does that is deeplywounded (for the wound was deep, mydear; it was deep; but I would not havehad it otherwise), and seeing only thosehome friends, who had known theshape of my cradle, as it were, and towhom I could speak or not, as mymind was. I found solid comfort in thesociety of Ham, and would spendmany hours in the old grist-mill;sometimes sitting in the loft with himand the sparrows, sometimes hangingover the stones, and watching the wheatpour down between them, and hearingthe roar and the grinding of them. The

upper and nether millstones! HowHam's words would come back, overand over, as I thought how my life wasground between pain and longing! Oneday, I mind, Ham came and found meso, and I suppose my face may haveshowed part of what I felt; for he puthis great hand on my shoulder, andshouted in my ear, "Wheat flour, Jakey!prime wheat flour, and good riz bread;I see it rising, don't you be afeard!" Butby and by the neighbours in thecountry round heard of my beinghome again; and thinking that I musthave learned a vast deal overseas, theywere set on having me here and there tofiddle for them. At first I thought no, Icould not; there seemed to be only one

tune my fiddle would ever play again,and that no dancing tune. But withusing common sense, and some talkwith Father L'Homme-Dieu, thisfoolishness passed away, and it seemedthe best thing I could do, being insadness myself, was to give what littlecheer I could to others. So I went, andthe first time was the worst, and I sawat once here was a thing I could do, anddo, it might be, better than another. Forbeing with the marquis, Melody, andseeing how high folks moved, andspoke, and held themselves, it wasborne in upon me that I had specialfitness for a task that might well beconnected with the pleasure of youthin dancing. Dancing, as I have pointed

out to you many times, may beconsidered in two ways: first, as themere fling of high spirits, younganimals skipping and leaping, as kids ina meadow, and with no thought save toleap the highest, and prance thefurthest; but second, and more truly, Imust think, to show to advantage thegrace (if any) and perfection of thehuman body, which we take to be thework of a divine hand, and the beautyof motion in accord with music. Andwhereas I have heard dancingcondemned as unmanly, and fit only forwomen and young boys, I must stilltake the other hand, and think there isno finer sight than a well-proportionedman, with a sense of his powers, and a

desire to do justice to them, movingthrough the figures of a contra-dance.But this is my hobby, my dear, and Imay have wearied you with it beforenow.

I undertook, then, as my trade allowedit, and indeed, in time the bench cameto hold only the second place in thearrangement of my days, to giveinstruction in dancing and deportment,to such as desired to improvethemselves in these respects. The youngpeople in the villages of that districtwere honest, and not lacking in wits;but they were uncouth to a degree thatseemed to me, coming as I did from thehome of all grace and charm, a thing

horrible, and not to be endured. Theywere my neighbours; I was bound, orso it seemed to me, to help them to aright understanding of the mercies of abountiful Providence, and to preventthe abuse of these mercies by cowishgambols. I let it be understoodwherever I went that whoever wouldstudy under me must be a gentleman;for a gentleman is, I take it, first andlast, a gentle man, or one who out ofstrength brings sweetness, as in the caseof Samson's lion. To please, first theheart, by a sincere and cordial kindness,and next the eye, by a cheerful and (sofar as may be) graceful demeanour; thisdisposition will tend, if not to greatdeeds, at least to the comfort and

happiness of those around us. I wasthought severe, and may have been so;but I lived to see a notable changewrought in that country. I rememberthe day, Melody, when a young mansaid to me with feeling, "I cannot bearto see a man take off his hat to awoman. It makes me sick!" To-day, if aman, young or old, should fail in thiscommon courtesy, it would be askedwhat cave of the woods he came from.But let fine manners come from theheart, I would always say, else they areonly as a gay suit covering a deformedand shapeless body. I recall an occasionwhen one of my pupils, who had madegreat progress by assiduous study, andhad attained a degree of elegance not

often reached in his station, won theadmiration of the whole room by thedepth and grace of his bow. I praisedhim, as he deserved; but a few minutesafter, finding him in the act ofmimicking, for the public diversion, anawkward, ill-dressed poor lad, Idismissed him on the instant, and badehim never come to my classes again.

In these ways, my child, I tried, andwith fair measure of success, to ease thesmart of my own pain by furtheringthe pleasure of others; in these ways, towhich I added such skill as I hadgained on the violin, making it one ofmy chief occupations, when work wasslack, to play to such as loved music,

and more especially any who wereinfirm in health, or in sorrow by onereason or another. It was a humble pathI chose, my dear; but I never clearly sawmy way to a loftier one, and here Icould do good, and think I did it,under Providence. As an instance, I wassent for, it may have been a year or twoafter my trouble, to go some distance. Ayoung lady was ill, and being fanciful,and her parents well-to-do, she wouldhave me come and play to her, havingheard of me from one or another. Iwent, and found a poor shadow of ayoung woman, far gone in a decline, ifI could judge, and her eyes full of atrouble that came from no bodilyailment, my wits told me. She sent her

people away, saying she must have themusic alone. I have seldom found abetter listener, Melody, or one whospoke to me more plain in silence, herspirit answering to the music till Ialmost could hear the sound of it.Feeling this, I let myself slip into thebow, as it were, more than I was awareof; and presently forgot her, or nextthing to it, and was away in the rose-garden of Chateau Claire, and saw theblue eyes that held all heaven in them,and heard the voice that made mymusic harsh. And when at last Ibrought it down to a whisper, seeingthe young woman's eyes shut, andthinking she might be asleep, shelooked up at me, bright and sharp, and

said, "You, too "

I never saw her again, and indeed thinkshe had not long to live. But it is aninstance, my dear, of what a person cando, if the heart within him is tender tothe sorrows of others.

After Abby's death, but that was yearsafter all this, I found it wise to leave mynative village. I will not go into thecause of this, my child, since it was apassing matter, or so I trusted. Therewas some one there who had greatgood will to me, and, not knowing mystory, may have fancied that I was onewho could make her happy; I thoughtit right to tell her how I had fared, and

then, she being in distress, I left myhome, and from that time, I may say,had many homes, yet none my own. Ihave met with rare kindness; no man ofmy generation, I would wager, has thenumber of friends I can boast, and allkind, all hearty, all ready with a"welcome to Rosin the Beau." Andnow here, at your aunts' kind wish andyour prayer, my dearest Melody, dear asany child of my own could be, I amcome to spend my last days under yourroof; and what more could mortal manask than this, I truly know not. Myviolin and your voice, Melody; theywere made for each other; everybodysays that, my dear, and neither you nor Iwould deny it. And when the obligato is

silent, as shortly it must be in the goodcourse of nature, it is my prayer andhope that you will not miss me toomuch, my dear, but will go on in joyand in cheer, shedding light about you,and with your own darkness yielding aclear glory of kindness and happiness.Do not grieve for the old man, Melody,when the day comes for him to laydown the fiddle and the bow. I am old,and it is many years that Valerie hasbeen dead, and Yvon, too, and all ofthem; and happy as I am, my dear, I amsometimes tired, and ready for rest.And for more than rest, I trust andbelieve; for new life, new strength, newwork, as God shall please to give it me.

"I've travelled this country all over, Andnow to the next I must go; But I knowthat good quarters await me, And awelcome to Rosin the Beau."

THE END.

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors corrected.

Page 20, "our" changed to "her"

(clapping her hands)

Page 63, " ather" changed to "father"(how my father)

Page 74, "couple" changed to "couples"(a few couples)