ONE of the pleasantest streets in Viger was that which led from the thoroughfare of the village to the common. It was a little street with little houses, but it looked as if only happy people lived there. The enormous old willows which shaded it through its whole length made a perpetual shimmer of shadow and sun, and towered so above the low cottages that they seemed to have crept under the guardian trees to rest and doze a while. There was something idyllic about this contented spot; it seemed to be removed from the rest of the village, to be on the boundaries of Arcadia, the first inlet to its pleasant, dreamy fields. In the spring the boys made a veritable Arcadia of it, coming there in bands, cutting the willows for whistles, and entering into a blithe contest for supremacy in making them, accompanying their labors by a perpetual sounding of their pleasant pipes, as if a colony of uncommon birds had taken up their homes in the trees. Even in the winter there was something pleasant about it; the immense boles of the willows, presiding over the collection of houses, seemed to protect them, and the sunshine had always a suggestion of warmth as it dwelt in the long branches. It was on this street, just a little distance from the corner, that Paul Arbique kept his inn, which was famous in its way. He called it The Turenne, after the renowned commander of that name, for they had the same birthplace, and Arbique himself had been a soldier, as his medals would testify. The location was favorable for such a house as Arbique was prepared to keep, and in choosing it he appealed to a crotchet in man which makes it pleasanter for him to go around the corner for anything he may require. A pleasant place it was, particularly in summer. The very exterior had an air about it, the green blinds and the green slatted door, and the shadows from the willow-leaves playing over the legend “Fresh Buttermilk,” a sign dear to the lover of simple pleasures.

From all the appearances one would have supposed that The Turenne was a complete success, and every one thought Arbique was romancing when he said he was just getting along, and that was all. But so far as he knew he spoke the truth, for his wife managed everything, including himself. There was only one thing she could not do; she could not make him stop drinking brandy.

The Arbiques considered themselves very much superior to the village people, because they had come from old France. “I am a Frenchman,” Paul would say, when he had had too much brandy; but no one would take offence at him, he was too good a fellow. When he had had a modicum of his favorite liquor he talked of his birthplace, Sedan, the dearest spot on earth to him, and his Crimean experiences; and when he had reached a stage beyond that he talked of his wife. It was a pathetic sight to see him at such times, as he leaned close to his auditor, and explained to him how superior a woman Felice was, and what a cruel, inexplicable mistake she had made in marrying him, and how all his efforts to make her happy had failed, not through any fault of her own, but because it was impossible that he could ever make her happy; thus taking all the blame of their domestic infelicity upon his own shoulders, with the simple idea that it must be his own fault when no fault of any kind could possibly rest with Felice.

He was a tall chivalrous-looking fellow, with a military air, and despite his fifty years and the extent of his potations there was yet a brave flourish in his manner. He was seen at his best on Sunday, when, clothed in a complete suit of black, with a single carnation in his buttonhole, and with an irreproachable silk hat, he promenaded with Madame Arbique on his arm. Madame on such occasions was as fine as her lord, and held her silk gown far above the defilement of the street, in order to show her embroidered petticoat and a pair of pretty feet. But no matter how finely she was dressed she always wore an expression of discontent. She had the instincts of a miser, but she also had enough good sense not to let them interfere with the sources of profit, and so, although she was as keen to save a cent as any one could have been, The Turenne showed no sign of it. The provision for the entertainment of guests was ample and sufficient. Felice had always had her own way, and owing to Paul’s incapacity, which had overtaken him gradually, the affairs of the house had been left in her hands.

They had only had one child, who had died when she was a baby, and this want of children was a great trial to Paul. They had attempted to fill her place by adopting a little girl, but the experiment had not been a success, and she grew to be something between a servant and a poor relation working for her board. This was owing to no fault of Paul’s, who would have prevented it if he could, but his wife had taken a dislike to the child, and she simply neglected her. Latulipe, for in the family she was called by no other name, was a strange girl. She had been frightened and subdued by Madame Arbique, and at times she would scarcely speak a word, and then again she would talk boldly and defiantly, as if she were protesting, no matter how insignificant her remarks might be. Her personal appearance was as odd as her manner; she had an abundance of hair, of a light, pleasant shade of red, her complexion was a clear white, her lips were intensely crimson, her dark eyes were small but quick, and very clear. Her manner was shy, and rather awkward. Her one claim to distinction was that she had some influence over Arbique, whom she could now and then prevent drinking. He was sorry for her, and ashamed of the position she occupied in the house, which was so different from what he had intended.

When the Franco-Prussian war broke out, and for months before, The Turenne was the rendezvous for those of the villagers who had any desire to discuss the situation. Arbique was the oracle of this group, and night after night he held forth on the political situation, on the art of war, and his personal experiences in the army. There was only one habitué of The Turenne who was silent on these occasions, that was Hans Blumenthal, the German watchmaker. He had had his corner in the bar-room ever since he had come to Viger, and was one of Arbique’s best customers. But when the war excitement broke out Arbique expected to see no more of him; the warmth of the discussions and the violence of the treatment his nation received nightly would have been expected to drive him away. But instead, he returned again and again to his place at the little table by the window, peering through his glasses with his imperturbable, self-absorbed expression, not seeming to heed the wordy storms that beset his ears.

Arbique, when hostilities had actually broken out, pasted a map of the seat of war upon the wall; above this he placed a colored picture of a French chasseur, and scrawled below it the words “A Berlin!” Even this did not disturb the German. He took advantage of the map, and as Arbique had set pins, to which were attached red and blue pieces of wool, to show the positions of the armies, he even studied the locations and movements with interest. He read his paper, gave his orders, paid his score, came and went as he had always done. This made Paul very angry, and he would have turned him out of the house if he had not remembered that he was his guest, and his sense of honor would not permit it. He was drinking very heavily and wanted to fight some one, but every one agreed with him except the German, and he kept silence. He had serious thoughts of challenging him to a duel, if the opportunity offered.

Latulipe was the only one who stood up for Hans. She had been accustomed to wait on the guests sometimes, when Arbique was incapacitated, and his gentle manner had won her regard. One day she turned on Paul, who was abusing Hans behind his back, and gave him a piece of her mind. She was so sudden and sharp with it that she sobered him a little, and in thinking it over he came to the conclusion that if he could help it she would see the German no more. Hans noticed her absence, and said to Paul one night when he was ordering his beer: “Where is Mademoiselle Latulipe?” By the way he said it, in his odd French, any one could have told what he thought of Latulipe. “Mademoiselle Latulipe,” said Arbique, with a dramatic flourish, “is my daughter.” So Hans saw her no more in the evening.

He had other trials besides this. Once in a while the lads in the street hooted after him, and this sort of attention became more frequent. One evening, after the news of Woerth had been received, some one threw a stone through the window of his shop. That very night he stood before the map with his hands behind him, peering into it; as he altered the pins, which Arbique had now lost all interest in, he heard some one mutter “Scélérat!” He thought it must be intended for him, but he drank his beer quietly and went home rather early. After he had gone some of his enemies, becoming valiant with liquor, made a compact to go out when it was late enough, break into his house, and give him a sound beating. But Latulipe overheard their plan from the stairway, and as soon as she could get away without being noticed, she ran over to the watchmaker’s shop. It was quite late and there was not a soul on the street. She was wondering how she could warn him, but when she reached the door she noticed a ladder which led to a scaffold running along below the windows of the second story, where some workmen had been making repairs. There was a light burning in one of the second story windows, and without waiting to reflect Latulipe ran up the ladder and tapped at the window. Hans opened it, and said something in German when he saw who it was. Latulipe did not wait for salutations, but told him exactly what he might expect. When that was over she tried to escape as she had come, but the darkness below frightened her, and she could not go down the ladder. Hans tried to coax her to come in at the window and go out by the street door, but she would not hear to that; she leaned against the house, shrinking away from the edge. So Hans got out upon the scaffolding. “Mademoiselle Latulipe,” he said, in his rough French, “you need not be alarmed at me; I have only a good heart toward you.” He held out his hand, but Latulipe knew by the sound of his voice that he was going to make love to her, and before he could say another word she was at the bottom of the ladder. When the bravos came to give Hans his beating he confronted them with a lamp in one hand and a pistol in the other, and they fell over one another in their haste to retreat.

During the whole of the month of August Arbique had been wild with excitement; he could think of nothing but the war, and would talk of nothing else. At first he would not believe in any reverse to the French arms; it was impossible—lies, lies, everything was lies. His cry was “A Berlin!” But although he could manage to deceive himself by this false enthusiasm, sometimes the truth would stab straight to his heart like a knife, and he would tremble as if he had the ague, for the honor of his country was the thing dearest to him in all the world. If he could only have died for her! But there, day after day, he saw the pins on the map, moved by that cold German, close around Metz. He could no longer cry “A Berlin;” the French army was facing Paris, with Berlin at its back. He drank fiercely now, and even Latulipe could do nothing with him. Madame Arbique knew that he would drink himself to death, as his father had done. He would sit and mutter by the hour, thinking all the time of what revenge he could have on Blumenthal, who had become to his eyes the incarnation of hated Prussia. But so long as Hans came to the house quietly to sit at his table and drink his beer Arbique would not say an uncivil word to him.

On the evening of the 28th of August there was an unusual crowd at The Turenne, and a group had surrounded the map gesticulating and discussing. Hans had finished reading his paper, and went toward them. They parted when they saw him coming, and he stood peering down at the map through his glasses. Arbique had not been seen all evening, but he appeared suddenly, looking haggard and shattered, and caught sight of his friends grouped round the German. He went slowly toward them, and as he approached he heard Hans say: “There, there they must fight,” and saw him put his finger on the map between Mézières and Carignan, almost over Sedan.

Paul had been in bed all day, and had not had anything to drink, and when he saw the German with his finger on Sedan he could not stand it any longer. He broke out: “No, not there—here,” his voice trembling with rage. “Here they will fight—you for your abominable Prussia, I for my beautiful France.” He fell into a dramatic attitude. Drawing two pistols from his pocket, he presented one to his nearest friend to hand to Blumenthal. The man held the pistol for a moment, but Hans never moved. Madame Arbique, seeing the commotion, and catching sight of the weapons, screamed as loud as she could, and Latulipe, running in, threw herself upon Arbique. He turned deadly pale and had to use the girl’s strength to keep from falling. Hans went away quietly, and sat down near the window. Arbique was fluttering like a leaf in the wind, and Latulipe and Felice half carried him upstairs. The men left in the room shook their heads.

The next evening Hans was walking in the starlight, under the willows. With his dim vision he saw some one leaning against one of the trees, but when he passed again he knew it was Latulipe. He stopped and spoke to her. When she spoke she did not answer his question. “Oh,” she said, “he will never get better, never.” “Yes,” said Hans, “he will be better.” “No,” said Latulipe, “I know by the way he looks, and he says now that France is beaten and crushed he does not want to live.” “Brave soul!” said Hans. “And when he goes,” said Latulipe, “what is to become of me?” He laid his hand upon her arm, and when she did not resist, he took her hand in both his own. She was giving herself to the enemy. A cloud above had taken the starlight, and in the willows a little rain fell with a timorous sound. Latulipe was crying softly on Hans’s shoulder.

It was September, and around Viger the harvest was nearly finished. The days were clear as glass; already the maples were stroked with fire, with the lustre of wine and gold; early risers felt the keener air; the sunsets reddened the mists which lay light as lawn on the low fields. But Paul Arbique thought and spoke of Sedan alone, the place where he was born, of the Meuse, the bridges, of his father’s farm, just without the walls of the city, and of his boyhood, and the friends of his youth. His thoughts were hardly of the war, or of the terror of the downfall which had a little while before so haunted him.

It was the evening of the day upon which the news of the battle had come. They had resolved not to tell him, but there was something in Latulipe’s manner which disturbed him. Waking from a light doze, he said: “That Prussian spy, what did he say?—they must fight there—between Mézières and Carignan? I have been at Carignan—and he had his hound’s paw on Sedan.” He was quiet for a while; then he said, dreamily: “They—have—fought.” Latulipe, who was watching with him, wept. In the night his lips moved again. “France,” he murmured, “France will rise—again.” It was toward the morning of the next day when his true heart failed. Latulipe had just opened the blinds. A pale light came through the willows. When she bent over him she caught his last word. “Sedan.” He sighed. “Sedan.”

IT was an evening early in May. The maples were covered with their little seed-pods, like the crescents of the Moslem hosts they hung redly in the evening air. The new leaf-tips of the poplars shone out like silver blooms. The mountain-ash-trees stood with their virginal branches outlined against the filmy rose and gray of the evening sky, their slender leaves half open. Everything swam in the hazy light; the air was full of gold motes; in the sky lay a few strands of cloud, touched with almost imperceptible rose. At the upper window of a house in De Musset Street, Maurice Ruelle looked down upon the trees covered with the misty light. His window was high above everything, and the house itself stood alone on the brow of a little cliff that commanded miles of broken country. Maurice was propped up at the window, and had a shawl thrown about his shoulders. The room was close; a little wood-fire was dying away in the open stove.

“Maurice, Maurice, I’m sick of life. I will be an adventuress.”

Maurice turned his head to look at the speaker. She was seated on the floor, leaning on her slanted arm, which was thrown behind her to support her weight.

“Well, my dear sister, you are ambitious—”

“Don’t be bitter, Maurice.”

“I’m not bitter; I know you are ambitious; I am proud of you, you know. I don’t see why you have to nurse me; fate is cruel to you.”

“Oh, but I don’t nurse you, you know that; what’s my nursing good for? I only wish we had money enough to send you away for these terrible winters, or give you a room in some fine hospital.”

Maurice watched the birds dropping through the glow. A little maid brought in candles. Eloise began to walk up and down the room restlessly.

“Ah, well, we haven’t the money,” Maurice sighed.

“Money—money—it’s not altogether a matter of money; to me it’s a matter of life.”

“Well, to me it’s hardly a matter of money or of life.”

“Maurice, you must not think of that; I forbid it. I must do something. I feel that I can succeed. Look at me, Maurice—tell me now—”

She stood with her head thrown back; and poised lightly, and with a little frown on her face.

“Superb!” said her brother.

“I know I’ll do something desperate,” she said. “I must live; I was made to.”

“Yes, my dear, that is the difference between us.”

“Maurice, how dare you; I forbid it; I have decided. You will go south, and I will begin to live. I am going to stop wishing.”

“Well, I have long ago ceased to wish; wishing was the only passion I ever had; I have given it up. But I have not wished for money; sometimes I have wished for health—”

He did not finish his sentence; he only thought of what he had longed for more than anything else, the love of his beautiful, impulsive sister. Eloise was dusting her geranium leaves. Maurice looked from his window into the tree on which the leaves were not yet thick enough to hide the old nests.

A short time after this a rather curious advertisement appeared in one of the city papers. It read: “Very handsome old oak furniture. Secretaire with small drawers. A dower chest and a little table. Each article richly carved. For particulars call at No. 68 Rue Alfred de Musset, Viger.”

Eloise read this advertisement to her brother.

“What does this mean?” he asked. “We have no such furniture, but it is our number true enough. Is this the commencement?”

“Yes, my dear, that is what it is.”

The next day callers in response to this advertisement began to arrive. Eloise answered the bell herself. The first was a rather shabby old man who wore a tall hat and green glasses. He produced a crumpled clipping from the paper, and, smoothing it out, handed it to Eloise.

“I have come to buy this second-hand furniture,” he explained, holding his hat by the brim. Eloise looked at the advertisement as if she had never seen it before.

“There must be some mistake,” she said. “I have no such furniture.”

“I have not mistaken the number—No. 68 Rue Alfred de Musset.”

“Yes, but the printer must have made a mistake; this is not the place.”

Many times that day she had to give unpromising looking people the same answer. Every one of them accepted the situation cheerfully; certainly it must have been a mistake. Three letters came also with inquiries about the furniture. One of these Eloise was tempted to answer; but she resolved to wait a day or two. The next day no one came at all; but on the next, about four o’clock in the afternoon, a young man drove up in a dog-cart. He left his horse, and walked rapidly through the little garden to the house. He was a handsome vigorous-looking youth. He rang somewhat violently; and Eloise answered the summons. She opened the door a foot, and the caller could only see a bit of her white dress.

“I have called to see the furniture you have advertised,” he said.

The door opened slowly, and, taking this as an invitation to enter, he stepped into the hall. He could not tell why, but he expected to see an old woman behind the door; instead he saw a very graceful girl holding the door-knob between her fingers. Without a word she preceded him with an air of shyness, and led the way into the front room. He glanced about for the furniture; it was evidently not there. She asked him to be seated.

“My father wanted me to come out and look at the things you advertised,” he said.

“You are very good, Monsieur.”

“Not at all; my father picks up these things for the house, when they are really valuable.”

“These are very valuable.”

She still wore an air of shyness, and looked abstractedly from the window into a lilac-bush; she seemed nervous and apprehensive.

“Could you let me see them?”

There was a noise upstairs. Eloise half started from her chair.

“I beg of you not to speak so loudly.”

He relapsed into a whisper.

“I beg pardon, I was not conscious of speaking too loudly.”

“It is not that, but—I cannot explain.” She ended abruptly. “You see,” she said, hesitatingly, “I wish you had come yesterday.”

“Have you promised them to some one else?”

“No, not at all; but yesterday it might have been possible, to-day it is impossible to show it to you.”

“When can I see it?”

“I am unfortunate—I cannot say when. It is my brother’s—but it must be sold.”

An expression of slight distress crossed her face.

“Does he not want it sold?”

“Monsieur, I beg of you not to question me; I am in great perplexity.” She continued, after a moment’s pause, “You have rarely seen things so exquisite; the secretaire has a secret cabinet, the chest is carved with a scene of nymphs in a wood; the table is a beautiful little table.” She figured these articles in the air with an imaginative wave of her hand. The young man began to regard her with some interest; he remarked to himself that she was a lovely girl.

“I’m sorry my call is inopportune, I will come again.” He left his card on the table.

“Perhaps when you come again it will be more convenient,” she said, following him at some distance to the door. He opened it himself, and went down the steps; as he looked back it was slowly shutting, and he caught a glimpse of her delicate white dress as it closed. Eloise took up the card. The name was Pierre Pechito. She knew the name; it was borne by one of the richest of the city merchants. She took the card up to Maurice. He held it in his emaciated fingers.

“Is this the end of Chapter One?” he asked. “Well, he may never come back; and what will you do with him if he does come back?”

“Oh, he will come; as for the rest, we must succeed. But there is one thing, Maurice, you must be the invisible ogre; you must rage about here as wildly as you can, while I am working out our destiny downstairs.”

“My destiny?” he asked, with a falling touch of sadness in his accent.

A few days after this Pierre returned. “May I come in?” he asked, as Eloise held the door open hesitatingly.

“If you wish, Monsieur.” They sat a moment silently in the parlor.

“Monsieur,” said Eloise, commencing hurriedly but determinedly, “in this life everything is uncertain; so much depends upon mere circumstances, which are too obscure for us to control. I am willing to show you the furniture, but how much depends upon that!” She rose with the air of a heroine, and led the way to the foot of the stairs. Pierre followed. She had ascended three steps, and he had his hand on the newel post, when there was a crash in the room above. Eloise turned suddenly and leaned against the banister, glancing up the stairs, and extending her hand to keep Pierre back. “Monsieur, for the love of heaven do not come on, go back—go back into the room, I beg of you.”

“I am leaving you in danger, Mademoiselle.”

“I am accustomed to it. I beg of you.” She accompanied these words with an imploring gesture. Pierre went into the room, where he paced up and down. The noise increased in violence, and then ceased altogether. Eloise returned to the room; she leaned from the window, breathing convulsively; she plucked one of the half-grown lilac leaves and bit it through and through.

“Yet the furniture must be sold,” she said aloud. Pierre took a step toward her.

“Mademoiselle, you are in distress. May I not help you? I am able to. You can command me.”

“Alas, Monsieur, you mean I can command your wealth.” Pierre was profoundly moved at the sorrow in her girlish voice.

“I mean I would help you; I want to do what I can for you.”

“Let us go no farther,” she said, with her eyes fixed on the floor. “I must not come into your happy life.” There was a trace of bitterness in her tone.

“I have undertaken to buy the furniture,” he said, with a smile. “I will not give up so soon.”

“Maurice, Maurice, you are a splendid ogre!” said Eloise, throwing open the door.

“It is terribly exhausting,” he said, with a faint smile.

When Pierre next came it was raining quietly through a silver haze; the little maid opened the door; a moment later Eloise came into the room. When she spoke her voice sounded restrained; and to Pierre she seemed completely different.

“I have deceived you,” she commenced, without prelude, “there is no furniture to sell.” To all his questions or remonstrances she gave him this answer, as if she were afraid to trust herself to other words, standing with her eyes cast to the floor, and an expressionless face. But when she seemed the most distant, as if she could not recede further, she burst into tears. Pierre hurried toward her—“Mademoiselle, I cannot address you by name; you cannot deceive me; you are in great distress. I beg you not to think of the furniture; it is not necessary that these things of wood should trouble you further; to-day I did not come to see it, I came to see you.”

“Oh, Monsieur,” she sobbed, “you must never come here again, never—never!”

“Make no mistake, I will come, at least until I can help you, until I know your story.” He gained her hand.

“Monsieur, I cannot accept your assistance; but your kindness demands my story.”

She told it. She was a lovely girl caught in a net of circumstances. She was an orphan. Her parents had left her and her brother a little money—too little to live on—they existed. Her brother was a cripple—how often had she wished she was dead—he was wicked. She hinted at unkindness, at tyranny. It was necessary to sell these heir-looms. (Here Pierre pressed her hand, “You could not deceive me,” he said.) But he would not hear of it. Her life was intolerable—but she must live it to the end—to the end. “If I could have deceived you, Monsieur, I would have done so.” A smile shimmered through her tears. Pierre pressed her hand; she softly drew it away. Suddenly there was a crash in the room above; a light shower of dry white-wash was thrown down around them; the sound of an inhuman voice came feebly down the stairs. “I must go, do not detain me,” she cried, as Pierre tried to intercept her. He endeavored to hold her at the foot of the stairs. “Do not go, I beg of you.” She turned sweetly toward him. “I must go; it is my duty; you do yours.” The tears were not yet dry on her eyelids. Pierre watched her flutter upstairs like a dove flying into a hawk’s nest. His pulses were pounding at his wrists. “I wish I knew what my duty was,” he said to himself. As he left the house he glanced up at the window, a handkerchief dropped down; he pressed it to his lips and thrust it into his bosom. When he was out of sight he examined it. It was a dainty thing of the most delicate fabric; in one corner were the words, “Eloise Ruelle.”

Eloise found Maurice almost fainting with his exertion. When he recovered, he said—

“Is the game worth the candle?”

“Well, we will see.”

“Eloise, you have been crying.”

“I cry easily, I do everything easily.”

Maurice turned away and gazed from the window. The rain was so fine it seemed to be a rising mist; the trees were hidden, like plants in the bottom of the sea; somewhere the sun was shining, for there was a silver bar in the mist.

Pierre was not slow in coming again; but, instead of seeing Eloise, he had a note thrust into his hand by the little serving-maid. It ran: “I cannot see you. He forbids it. Who could have told that our last word was ‘good-by.’ If I could have spoken again I would have thanked you. How can I ever do so now? Adieu.” Reading this on the step, he scrawled hurriedly on a leaf of his note-book: “I would not have you thank me, but I must see you again. Your risk is great, but I will be here to-morrow night; we will have the darkness, and all I ask is ten minutes. Is it too much?”

He gave the note to the maid, who shut the door. The house looked absolutely sphinx-like as he walked away from it.

The next night was moist with a touch of frost. A little smoke from burning leaves hung in the air with a pungent odor. The scent of the lilacs fell with the wind when it moved. Eloise was muffled picturesquely in a cloak. Pierre was holding her hand, which she had not reclaimed. “I have dared everything to come,” she said softly.

“You are brave, braver than I was to ask you.”

“You know my story. You are the only one.”

“That binds us.”

“How can I thank you?”

“You must not try, I have done nothing.”

Just then a burning brand was hurled from the window; it fell into the lilac-tree where it devoured a cone of blossom and withered the leaves around it. It threw up a little springing flame which danced a light on Eloise, who had cowered into a corner by the steps, with her hand over her eyes. Pierre went to her. “Tell me,” he said, “what does this mean?”

“Oh,” she moaned, “he suspects we are here; he always has a fire on the hottest nights, and he is throwing the sticks out.” This led Pierre to expect another one. He caught her by the arm.

“You must come out of danger,” he said, “one might fall on your dress.” The brand was glowing in spots. He tore it out of the bush and trampled on it. They went to the other side of the steps. It was the season of quick growth. In one day thousands of violets had lit their little tips of yellow fire in the tangle of the underwood; in one day the tulips were moulded into fragile cups of flame burning steady in the sunlight; in one day the lilacs had burst their little clove-like blooms, and were crowding in the dark-green leaves.

Pierre was saying excitedly: “Listen to me. This thing cannot go further. I love you, I am yours. I must protect you. You cannot deny me.” Eloise tried to stop him with an imploring gesture. “No,” he cried, “you must hear me! you must be mine! I will take you away from here.”

“Oh, do not tempt me!” cried Eloise. “I must stay here. I cannot leave him.”

“You must leave him. What hold has he upon you? I will never let you go back to this torment,—never. Eloise,” he continued seriously, “sometimes we have to decide in a moment the things of a life-time. This is such a moment. Before I pluck this blossom,” he said, leaning down to a dwarf lilac-bush bearing one bloom, “I want you to promise to be my wife.” A moment later he had plucked the flower, but had dropped it, and had caught Eloise in his arms. She stifled a cry, and gave herself to him.

“Maurice, Maurice,” cried Eloise, “look at me, I am triumphant!” He hardly looked at her; he was cowering over the fire, which had smouldered away, and in which the ashes were fluttering about like moths.

“I have done what you asked, that is all,” he said, with an effort.

“But it is everything to me; I will never forget you, Maurice, no matter how powerful I may become.”

“Alas! you need not remember me for long. Perhaps I will have what I wanted here, in some other star.”

A few evenings later Eloise drew the door after her: “Hush!” she said, “the least noise will disturb him.” She hesitated, and left the door ajar.

“Do you regret?” whispered Pierre.

“No, but I am leaving everything.”

“Yes, even the old furniture; if it had not been for that I would never have known you,” he said.

“Everything—everything,” murmured Eloise.

She listened for a moment, and then shut the door softly on the empty house: Maurice had gone to the hospital that afternoon; the little maid had been discharged.

“But,” she said, holding Pierre’s arm and leaning away from him with her sweet smile, “I have also gained all—everything.”

The next moment they had gone cautiously away.

This was the beginning of her career.

IT was the sunniest corner in Viger where old Garnaud had built his cabin,—his cabin, for it could not be called a house. It was only of one story, with a kitchen behind, and a workshop in front, where Etienne Garnaud mended the shoes of Viger. He had lived there by himself ever since he came from St. Valérie; every one knew his story, every one liked him. A merry heart had the old shoemaker; it made a merry heart to see him bending his white head with its beautiful features above his homely work, and to hear his voice in a high cadence of good-humored song. The broad window of his cabin was covered with a shutter hinged at the top, which was propped up by a stick slanted from the window-sill. In the summer the sash was removed, and through the opening came the even sound of the Blanche against the bridge piers, or the scythe-whetting from some hidden meadow. From it there was a view of a little pool of the stream where the perch jumped clear into the sun, and where a birch growing on the bank threw a silver shadow-bridge from side to side. Farther up, too, were the willows that wore the yellow tassels in the spring, and the hollow where burr-marigolds were brown-golden in August. On the hill slope stood a delicate maple that reddened the moment summer had gone, which old Etienne watched with a sigh and a shake of the head.

If the old man was a favorite with the elder people of Viger, he was a yet greater favorite with the children. No small portion of his earnings went toward the purchase of sugar candy for their consumption. On summer afternoons he would lay out a row of sweet lumps on his window-sill and pretend to be absorbed by his work, as the children, with much suppressed laughter, darted around the corner of his cabin, bearing away the spoils. He would pause every now and then to call, “Aha—Aha! Where are all my sweeties? those mice and rats must have been after them again!” and would chuckle to himself to hear the children trying to keep back the laughter, out of sight around the corner. In the winter, when the boys and girls would come in to see him work, he always managed to drop some candy into their pockets, which they would find afterward with less surprise than the old man imagined.

But his great friend was the little blind daughter of his neighbor Moreau. “Here comes my little fairy,” he would call out, as he saw her feeling her way down the road with her little cedar wand. “Here comes my little fairy,” and he would go out to guide her across the one plank thrown over the ditch in front of his cabin. Then they would sit and chat together, this beautiful old man and the beautiful little girl. She raised her soft brown, sightless eyes to the sound of his voice, and he told her long romances, described the things that lay around them, or strove to answer her questions. This was his hardest task, and he often failed in it; her questions ran beyond his power, and left him mystified.

One spring he bought a bobolink from some boys who had trapped it; and he hung its cage in the sun outside his cabin. There it would sing or be silent for days at a time. Little Blanche would sit outside under the shade of the shutter, leaning half into the room to hear the old man talk, but keeping half in the air to hear the bird sing.

They called him “Jack” by mutual consent, and he absorbed a great deal of their attention. Blanche had to be present at every cage cleaning. One day she said, “Uncle Garnaud, what is he like?”

“Why, dearie, he’s a beauty; he’s black all over, except his wings and tail, and they have white on them.”

“And what are his wings like?”

“Well, now, that finishes me. I am an old fool, or I could tell you.”

“Uncle Garnaud, I never even felt a bird; could I feel Jack?”

“Well, I could catch him; but you mustn’t squeeze him.”

Jack was caught with a sudden dart of the old man’s hand; the little blind girl felt him softly, traced the shape of his outstretched wing, and put him back into the cage with a sigh.

“Tell me, Uncle Garnaud,” she asked, “how did they catch him?”

“Well, you see, they put a little cage on a stump in the oat-field, and by-and-by the bird flew over and went in.”

“Well, didn’t he know they would not let him out if he once went in?”

“Well, you know, he hadn’t any old uncle to tell him so.”

“Well, but birds must have uncles, if they have fathers just like we have.”

Old Etienne puckered up his eyes and put his awl through his hair. The bird ran down a whole cadence, as if he was on the wind over a wheat-field; then he stopped.

“There, Uncle Garnaud, I know he must mean something by that. What did he do all day before he was caught?”

“I don’t think he did any work. He just flew about and sang all day, and picked up seeds, and sang, and tried to balance himself on the wheat-ears.”

“He sang all day? Well, he doesn’t do that now.”

The bird seemed to recall a sunny field-corner, for his interlude was as light as thistledown, and after a pause he made two little sounds like the ringing of bells at Titania’s girdle.

“Perhaps he doesn’t like to be shut up and have nobody but us,” she said, after a moment.

“Well,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “we might let him go.”

“Yes,” faltered the child, “we might let him go.”

The next time little Blanche was there she said, “And he didn’t do anything but that, just sing and fly?”

“No, I think not.”

“Well, then, he could fly miles and miles, and never come back, if he didn’t want to?”

“Why, yes; he went away every winter, so that the frost wouldn’t bite him.”

“Oh! Uncle Garnaud, he didn’t, did he?”

“Yes, true, he did.”

The little girl was silent for a while; when the old man looked at her the tears were in her eyes.

“Why, my pretty, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, I was just thinking that why he didn’t sing was because he only saw you and me, and the road, and our trees, when he used to have everything.”

“Well,” said the old man, stopping his work, “he might have everything again, you know.”

“Might he?” she asked, doubtfully.

“Why, we might let him fly away.”

The bird dropped a clear note or two.

“Oh, Uncle Garnaud, do let him go!”

“Why, beauty, just as you say.”

The old man put off his apron and took the cage down.

“Here, little girl, you hold the cage, and we’ll go where he can fly free.”

Blanche carried the cage and he took her hand. They walked down to the bridge, and set the cage on the rail.

“Now, dearie, open the door,” said the old man.

The little child felt for the slide and pushed it back. In a moment the bird rushed out and flew madly off.

“He’s gone,” she said, “Jack’s gone. Where did he go, Uncle?”

“He flew right through that maple-tree, and now he’s over the fields, and now he’s out of sight.”

“And didn’t he even once look back?”

“No, never once.”

They stood there together for a moment, the old man gazing after the departed bird, the little girl setting her brown, sightless eyes on the invisible distance. Then, taking the empty cage, they went back to the cabin. From that day their friendship was not untinged by regret; some delicate mist of sorrow seemed to have blurred the glass of memory. Though he could not tell why, old Etienne that evening felt anew his loneliness, as he watched a long sunset of red and gold that lingered after the footsteps of the August day, and cast a great color into his silent cabin above the Blanche.