MARIE

BY

LAURA E. RICHARDS

AUTHOR OF "CAPTAINJANUARY," "MELODY," "QUEENHILDEGARDE," "NARCISSA," ETC.

1894

TO

E. T. T.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. MARIE II. "D'ARTHENAY,TENEZ FOI!" III. ABBY ROCK IV.POSSESSION V. COURTSHIP VI.WEDLOCK VII. LOOKING BACKVIII. A FLOWER IN THE SNOW IX.MADAME X. DE ARTHENAY'SVIGIL XI. VITA NUOVA

MARIE.

CHAPTER I.

MARIE.

Marie was tired. She had been walkingnearly the whole day, and now the sunwas low in the west, and long level raysof yellow light were spreading over thecountry, striking the windows of afarmhouse here and there into suddenflame, or resting more softly on tree-tops and hanging slopes. They were likefiddle-bows, Marie thought; and at thethought she held closer something that

she carried in her arms, and murmuredover it a little, as a mother coos over herbaby. It seemed a long time since shehad run away from the troupe: shewould forget all about them soon, shethought, and their ugly faces. Sheshivered slightly as she recalled the faceof "Le Boss" as it was last bent uponher, frowning and dark, and as ugly as ahundred devils, she was quite sure. Ah,he would take away her violin Le Boss!he would give it to his own girl, whomshe, Marie, had taught till she couldplay a very little, enough to keep thebirds from flying away when they sawher, as they otherwise might; she was tohave the violin, the Lady, one's ownheart and life, and Marie was to have a

fiddle that he had picked up anywhere,found on an ash-heap, most likely! Ah,and now he had lost the Lady andMarie too, and who would play for himthis evening, and draw the children outof the houses he! let some one tellMarie that! It had not been hard, therunning away, for no one would everhave thought of Marie's daring to dosuch a thing. She belonged to Le Boss,as much as the tent or the ponies, or hisown ugly girl: so they all thought in thetroupe, and so Marie herself hadthought till that day; that is, she had notthought at all. While she could play allthe time, and had often quite enough toeat, and always something, a piece ofbread in the hand if no more, and La

Patronne, Le Boss's wife, never toounkind, and sometimes even giving hera bit of ribbon for the Lady's neckwhen there was to be a specialperformance, why, who would havethought of running away she had beenwith them so long, those others, andthat time in France was so long ago,hundreds of years ago!

So no one had thought of noticingwhen she dropped behind to tune herviolin and practise by herself; it was athing she did every day, they all knew,for she could not practise when thechildren pulled her gown all the time,and wanted to dance. She had chosenthe place well, having been on the

lookout for it all day, ever since Le Bosstold her what he meant to do, thatinfamy which the good God wouldnever have allowed, if He had not beenperhaps tired with the many infamiesof Le Boss, and forgotten to notice thisone. She had chosen the place well! Alittle wood dipped down to the right,with a brook running beyond, andacross the brook a sudden sharp rise,crowned with a thick growth ofbirches. She had played steadily as shepassed through the wood and over thestream, and only ceased when shegained the brow of the hill and spranglike a deer down the opposite slope. Noone had seen her go, she was sure ofthat; and now they could never tell

which way she had turned, and wouldbe far more likely to run back along theroad. How they would shout andscream, and how Le Boss would swear!Ah, no more would he swear at Mariebecause people did not always givemoney, being perhaps poor themselves,or unwilling to give to so ugly a face ashis girl's, who carried round the dish.No more! And La Patronne would besorry perhaps a little, she had the goodheart, La Patronne, under all the fat,and Old Billy, he would be too sorry,she was sure. Poor Old Billy! it wascruel to leave him, when he had suchjoy of her playing, the good old man,and a hard life taking care of the beasts,and bearing all the blame if any of

them died through hunger. But itwould have been sadder for Old Billyto see her die, Marie, and she wouldhave died, of course she would! To livewithout the Lady, a pretty life thatwould be! far sooner would one go atonce to the good God, where theangels played all day, even if one werenot allowed to play oneself just at first.Afterward, of course, when they foundout how she had played down here, itwould be otherwise.

Meanwhile, all these thoughts did notkeep Marie from being tired, andhungry too; and she was glad enoughto see some brown roofs clusteredtogether at a little distance, as she

turned a corner of the road. A village!good! Here would be children, withoutdoubt; and where there were children,Marie was among friends. She stoppedfor a moment, to push back her hair,which had fallen down in the course ofher night, and to tie the bluehandkerchief neatly over it, and shakethe dust from her bare feet. They werepretty feet, so brown and slender! Shehad shoes, but they were in the wagon;La Patronne took care of all the Sundayclothes, and there had been no chanceto get at anything, even if she couldhave been hampered by such things asshoes, with the Lady to carry. It did notin the least matter about shoes, when itwas summer: when the road was hot,

one walked in the cool grass at the side;when there was no grass eh, one waitedtill one came to some. They were onlyfor state, these shoes. They were stiffand hard, and the heel-places hurt: itwas different for La Patronne, whowore stockings under hers. But herewere the houses, and it was time to play.They were pleasant-looking houses,Marie thought, they looked as ifpersons lived in them who stayed athome and spun, as the women did inBrittany. Ah, that it was far away,Brittany! she had almost forgotten it,and now it all seemed to come back toher, as she gazed about her at thehouses, some white, some brown, allwith an air of thrift and comfort, as

becomes a New England village. Thatwhite house there, with the bright greenblinds! That pleased her eye. And see!there was a child's toy lying on the step,a child's face peeping out of thewindow. Decidedly, she had arrived.

Marie took out her violin, and tuned itsoftly, with little rustling, whisperingnotes, speaking of perfect accordbetween owner and instrument; thenshe looked up at the child and smiled,and began to play "En revenantd'Auvergne." It was a tune that the littlepeople always loved, and when oneheard it, the feet began to dance beforethe head. Sure enough, the dooropened in another moment, and the

child came slipping out: not with flyingsteps, as a city child would come, towhom wandering musicians were athing of every day; but shyly, withsidelong movements, clinging to thewall as it advanced, and only daring bystealth to lift its eyes to the strangewoman with the fiddle, a sight neverseen before in its little life. But Marieknew all about the things that childrenthink. What was she but a child herselfshe had little knowledge of grownpersons, and regarded them all as ogres,more or less, except Old Billy, and LaPatronne, who really meant to be kind.

"Come, lit' girl!" she said in her clearsoft voice. "Come and dance! for you I

play, for you I sing too, if you will. Ah,the pretty song, 'En revenantd'Auvergne!'" And she began to sing asshe played:

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

The little girl pressed closer against thewall, her eyes wide open, her finger inher mouth, yet came nearer and nearer,drawn by the smile as well as the music.Presently another came running up, andanother; then the boys, who had justbrought their cows home and wereplaying marbles on the sly, behind the

brown barn, heard the sound of thefiddle and came running, stuffing theirgains into their pockets as they ran.Then Mrs. Piper, who was alwaysfoolish about music, her neighborssaid, came to her door, and Mrs. Postopposite, who was as deaf as hernamesake, came to see what SusanPiper was after, loitering round thedoor when the men-folks were comingin to their supper: and so with onething and another, Marie had quite alittle crowd around her, and was feelinghappy and pleased, and sure that whenshe stopped playing and carried roundher handkerchief knotted at the fourcorners so as to form a bag, the pennieswould drop into it as fast, yes, and

maybe a good deal faster, than if LeBoss's ugly daughter was carrying it,with her nose turned up and one eyelooking round the corner to see whereher hair was gone to. Ah, Le Boss, whatwas he doing this evening for his music,with no Marie and no Lady!

And it was just at this triumphantmoment that Jacques De Arthenaycame round the corner and into thevillage street.

CHAPTER II.

"D'ARTHENAY, TENEZ FOI!"

There had been De Arthenays in thevillage ever since it became a village:never many of them, one or two atmost in a generation; not a prolificstock, but a hardy and persistent one.No one knew when the name haddropped its soft French sound, andtaken the harsh Anglo-Saxon accent. Ithad been so with all the old Frenchnames, the L'Homme-Dieus and DesIsles and Beaulieus; the air, or thegranite, or one knows not what, causedan ossification of the consonants, adrying up of the vowels, till thesenames, once soft and melodious,became more angular, more rasping inutterance, than ever Smith or Jones

could be.

They were Huguenots, the d'Arthenays.A friend from childhood of St. Castin,Jacques d'Arthenay had followed hisold companion to America at the timewhen the revocation of the Edict ofNantes rendered France no safedwelling-place for those who had nohinges to their knees. A stern, silentman, this d'Arthenay, like most of hisrace: holding in scorn the things ofearthly life, brooding over grievances,given to dwelling much on heaven andhell, as became his time and class.Leaving castle and lands and all earthlyties behind them, he and his wife cameout of Sodom, as they expressed it, and

turned not their faces, lookingsteadfastly forward to the wildernesswhere they were to worship God in Hisown temple, the virgin forest. It hadbeen a terrible shock to find the Baronde St. Castin fallen away from religionand civilisation, living in savage pompwith his savage wives, the daughters ofthe great chief Modocawando. Therecould be no such companionship asthis for the Sieur d'Arthenay and hisnoble wife; the friendship of half alifetime was sternly repudiated, andd'Arthenay cast in his lot with the littleband of Huguenot settlers who werestriving to win their livelihood from therugged soil of eastern Maine.

It was bitter bread that they ate, thoseFrench settlers. We read the story againand again, each time with a fresh pangof pity and regret; but it is not of themthat this tale is told. Jacques d'Arthenaydied in his wilderness, and his wifefollowed him quickly, leaving a son tocarry on the name. The gravestone ofthese first d'Arthenays was still to beseen in the old burying-ground: theyhad been the first to be buried there.The old stone was sunk half-way in theearth, and was gray with moss andlichens; but the inscription was stilllegible, if one looked close, and hadpatience to decipher the crabbed text.

"Jacques St. George, Sieur d'Arthenay et

de Vivonne. Mort en foi et enesperance, 28me Decembre, 1694."

Then a pair of mailed hands, clasped asin sign of friendship or loyalty, andbeneath them again, the words,

"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

The story was that the son of this firstSieur d'Arthenay had been exposed tosome dire temptation, whether of loveor of ambition was not clearly known,and had been in danger of turningfrom the faith of his people andembracing that of Rome. He came oneday to meditate beside his father'sgrave, hoping perhaps to draw some

strength, some inspiration, from thememories of that stern and righteousHuguenot; and as he sat beside thestone, lo! a mailed hand appeared,holding a sword, and graved with thepoint of the sword on the stone, theold motto of his father's house,

"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

And he had been strengthened, andlived and died in the faith of his father.Many people in the village scouted thisstory, and called it child's foolishness,but there were some who liked tobelieve it, and who pointed out thatthese words were not carved deeply andregularly, like the rest of the inscription,

but roughly scratched, as if with asharp point. And that although merelyso scratched, they had never beeneffaced, but were even more easily readthan the carven script.

Among those who held it forfoolishness was the present Jacques DeArthenay. He was perhaps the fifth indescent from the old Huguenot, but hemight have been his own son orbrother. The Huguenot doctrines hadonly grown a little colder, a little harder,turned into New England Orthodoxyas it was understood fifty years ago. Hethought little of his French descent orhis noble blood. He pronounced hisname Jakes, as all his neighbors did; he

lived on his farm, as they lived ontheirs. If it was a better farm, the landin better condition, the buildings andfences trimmer and better cared for,that was in the man, not in hiscircumstances. He was easily leaderamong the few men whose scattereddwellings made up the village of SeaMeadows (commonly pronouncedSemedders.) His house did not lie onthe little "street," as that part of theroad was called where some half-dozenhouses were clustered together, withtheir farms spreading out behind them,and the post-office for the king-pin; yetno important step would be taken bythe villagers without the advice andapproval of Jacques De Arthenay.

Briefly, he was a born leader; amasterful man, with a habit of thinkingbefore he spoke; and when he said athing must be done, people were apt todo it. He was now thirty years old,without kith or kin that any one knewof; living by himself in a good house,and keeping it clean and decent, almostas a woman might; not likely ever tochange his condition, it was supposed.

This was the man who happened tocome into the street on some errand,that soft summer evening, at the verymoment when Marie was feeling liftedup by the light of joy in the children'sfaces, and was telling herself how goodit was that she had come this way.

Hearing the sound of the fiddle, DeArthenay stopped for a moment, andhis face grew dark as night. He was areligious man, as sternly so as hisHuguenot ancestor, but wearing hisreligion with a difference. He knew allmusic, except psalm-tunes, to bedirectly from the devil. Even as to thepsalm-tunes themselves, it seemed tohim a dreadful thing that worshipcould not be conducted without thiscompromise with evil, this snare tocatch the ear; and he harboured in thedepth of his soul thoughts about theprobable frivolity of David, which hehardly voiced even to himself. Thefiddle, in particular, he held to bepositively devilish, both in its origin

and influence; those who played thisunholy instrument were bound to nogood place, and were sure to gain theirport, in his opinion. Being thusminded, it was with a shock of horrorthat he heard the sound of a fiddle inthe street of his own village, not fiftyyards from the meeting-house itself.After a moment's pause, he camewrathfully down the street; his heightraised him a head and shoulders abovethe people who were ringed around thelittle musician, and he looked over theirheads, with his arm raised to command,and his lips opened to forbid theshameful thing. Then he saw Marie'sface; and straightway his arm droppedto his side, and he stood without

speaking. The children looked up athim, and moved away, for they werealways afraid of him, and at thismoment his face was dreadful to see.

Yet it was nothing dreadful that helooked upon. Marie was standing withher head bent down over her violin, ina pretty way she had. A light, slightfigure, not short, yet with a look thatspoke all of youth and morning grace.She wore a little blue gown, patchedand faded, and dusty enough after herday's walk; her feet were dusty too, butslender and delicately shaped. Her facewas like nothing that had been seen inthose parts before, and the beauty of itseemed to strike cold to the man's

heart, as he stood and gazed withunwilling eyes, hating the feeling thatconstrained him, yet unable for themoment to restrain it or to turn his eyesaway. She had that clear, brightwhiteness of skin that is seen only inFrenchwomen, and only here and thereamong these; whiteness as of firebehind alabaster. Her hair was blackand soft, and the lashes lay like jet onher cheek, as she stood looking down,smiling a little, feeling so happy, sopleased that she was pleasing others.And now, when she raised her eyes,they were seen to be dark and soft, too;but with what fire in their depths, whatsunny light of joy, the joy of a childamong children! De Arthenay started,

and his hands clenched themselvesunconsciously. Marie started, too, as shemet the stern gaze fixed upon her, andthe joyous light faded from her eyes.Rudely it broke in upon her pleasantthoughts, this vision of a set, beardedface, with cold blue eyes that yet had aflame in them, like a spark struck fromsteel. The little song died on her lips,and unconsciously she lowered herbow, and stood silent, returninghelplessly the look bent so sternly uponher.

When Jacques de Arthenay foundhimself able to speak at last, he startedat the sound of his own voice.

"Who are you " he asked. "How didyou come here, young woman "

Marie held out her fiddle with a pretty,appealing gesture. "I come from away!"she said, in her broken English, thatsounded soft and strange to his ears. "Ido no harm. I play, to make happy thechildren, to get bread for me."

"Who came with you " De Arthenaycontinued. "Who are your folks "

Marie shook her head, and a light creptinto her eyes as she thought of Le Boss."I have nobodies'" she said. "I am withmyself, sauf le violon; I mean, wiz myfiddle. Monsieur likes not music, no "

She looked wistfully at him, andsomething seemed to rise up in theman's throat and choke him. He made aviolent motion, as if to free himselffrom something. What had happenedto him, was he suddenly possessed, orwas he losing his wits He tried to forcehis voice back into its usual tone, triedeven to speak gently, though his heartwas beating so wildly at the way shelooked, at the sweet notes of her voice,like a flute in its lower notes, that hecould hardly hear his own words. "No,no music!" he said. "There must be nomusic here, among Christian folks. Putaway that thing, young woman. It is anevil thing, bringing sin, and death,

which is the wages of sin, with it. Howcame you here, if you have no onebelonging to you "

Falteringly, her sweet eyes dropped onthe ground, with only now and then atimid, appealing glance at this terribleperson, this awful judge who hadsuddenly dropped from the skies, Marietold her little story, or as much of it asshe thought needful. She had been withbad people, playing for them, a longtime, she did not know how long. Andthen they would take away her violin,and she would not stay, and she ranaway from them, and had walked allday, and and that was all. A little sobshook her voice at the last words; she

had not realised before how utterlyalone she was. The delight of freedom,of getting away from her tyrants, hadbeen enough at first, and she had beenas it were on wings all day, like a bird letloose from its cage; now the little birdwas weary, and the wings drooped, andthere was no nest, not even a friendlycage where one would find food anddrink,

A sudden passion of pity he supposedit was pity shook the strong man. Hefelt a wild impulse to catch the littleshrinking creature in his arms and bearher away to his own home, to warmand cheer and comfort her. Was thereever before anything in the world so

sweet, so helpless, so forlorn He lookedaround. The children were all gone; hestood alone in the street with theforeign woman, and night was falling. Itwas at this moment that Abby Rock,who had been watching from herwindow for the past few minutes,opened her door and came out,stepping quietly toward them, as if theywere just the people she had expectedto see. De Arthenay hailed her as anangel from Heaven; and yet Abby didnot look like an angel.

"Abby!" he cried. "Come here a minute,will you "

"Good evening, Jacques!" said Abby, in

her quiet voice. "Good evening to you!"she added, speaking kindly to the littlestranger. "I was coming to see if youwouldn't like to step into my house andrest you a spell. Why, my heart!" shecried, as Marie raised her head at thesound of the friendly voice, "you'renothing but a child. Come right alongwith me, my dear. Alone, are ye, andnight coming on!"

"That's right, Abby!" cried De Arthenay,with feverish eagerness. "Yes, yes, takeher home with you and make hercomfortable. She is a stranger, and hasno friends, so she says. I I'll see you inthe morning about her. Take her! takeher in where she will be comfortable,

and I'll "

"I'll pay you well for it," was what hewas going to say, but Abby's quiet lookstopped the words on his lips. Whyshould he pay her for taking care of astranger, of whom he knew no morethan she did; whom he had never seentill this moment why, indeed! and shewas as well able to pay for the youngwoman's keep as he was to say the least.All this De Arthenay saw, or fancied hesaw, in Abby Rock's glance. He turnedaway, muttering something about seeingthem in the morning; then, with anabrupt bow, which yet was not withoutgrace, he strode swiftly down the streetand took his way home.

CHAPTER III.

ABBY ROCK.

If Abby Rock's kitchen was notheaven, it seemed very near it to Mariethat evening. She found herselfsuddenly in an atmosphere of peaceand comfort of which her life hadheretofore known nothing. The eveninghad fallen chill outside, but here all waswarm and light and cheerful, and thewarmth and cheer seemed to beembodied in the person of the womanwho moved quickly to and fro, stirring

the fire, putting the kettle on the hob(for those were the days of the openfire, of crane and kettle, andpicturesque, if not convenient,housekeeping), drawing a chair up nearthe cheerful blaze. Marie felt herselfenfolded with comfort. A shawl wasthrown over her shoulders; she waslifted like a child, and placed in thechair by the fireside; and now, as she satin a dream, fearing every moment towake and find herself back in the oldlife again, a cup of tea, hot andfragrant, was set before her, and thehandkerchief tenderly loosened fromher neck, while a kind voice bade herdrink, for it would do her good.

"You look beat out, and that's the fact,"said Abby Rock. "To-morrow you shalltell me all about it, but you no need tosay a single word to-night, only just setstill and rest ye. I'm a lone woman here.I buried my mother last June, and I'mright glad to have company once in awhile. Abby Rock, my name is; andperhaps if you'd tell me yours, weshould feel more comfortable like,when we come to sit down to supper.What do you say "

Her glance was so kind, her voice socordial and hearty, that Marie couldhave knelt down to thank her. "I amMarie," she said, smiling back into thekind eyes. "Only Marie, nossing else."

"Maree!" repeated Abby Rock. "Well,it's a pretty name, sure enough; has asound of 'Mary' in it, too, and that wasmy mother's name. But what was yourfather's name, or your mother's, if so beyour father ain't living now "

Marie shook her head. "I never know!"she said. "All the days I lived with MereJeanne in the village, far away, oh, far,over the sea."

"Over the sea " said Abby. "You meanthe bay, don't you, some of thoseFrench settlements down along theshore "

But Marie meant the sea, it appeared;for her village was in France, inEretagne, and there she had lived tillthe day when Mere Jeanne died, andshe was left alone, with no-onebelonging to her. Mere Jeanne was nother mother, no! nor yet hergrandmother, only her mother's aunt,but good, Abby must understand,good as an angel, good as Abby herself.And when she was dead, there was onlyher son, Jeannot, and he had married adevil, but yes! as Abby exclaimed, andheld up her hands in reproof, truly adevil of the worst kind; and one day,when Jeannot was away, this wife hadsold her, Marie, to another devil, LeBoss, who made the tours in the

country for to sing and to play. And hehad brought her away to this country,over very dreadful seas, where one wentdown into the grave at every instant,and then up again to the clouds, butleaving one's stomach behind one ah,but terrible! Others were with them, oh,yes! This in response to Abby'squestion, for in spite of her goodresolutions, curiosity was takingpossession of her, and it was evidentlya relief to Marie to pour out her littletale in a sympathetic ear, many others.La Patronne, the wife of Le Boss, whowas like a barrel, but not bad, when shecould see through the fat, not bad inevery way; and there was Old Billy, whotook care of the horses and dogs, and

he was her friend, and she loved him,and he had always the good word forher even when he was very drunk, toodrunk to speak to any one else. Andthen there was the daughter of Le Boss,who would in all probability never die,for she was so ugly that she would notbe admitted into the other world,where, Mere Jeanne said, evenMonsieur the Great Devil himself wasgood-looking, save for his expression.Also there were the boys who tumbledand rode on the ponies, and and andozer people. And with this Mane's headdropped forward, and she was asleep.

It seemed a pity to wake her whensupper was ready, but Abby knew just

how good her rolls were, and knew thatthe child must be famished; and sureenough, after a little nap, Marie wasready to wake and sit up at the littleround table, and be fed like a baby witheverything good that Abby could thinkof. The fare had not been dainty in thetravelling troupe of Le Boss. The finewhite bread, the golden butter, the bitof broiled fish, smoking hot, seemedviands of paradise to the hungry girl.She laughed for pleasure, and her eyesshone like stars. It was like the chateau,she said, where everything was goldand silver, the chateau where Madamela Comtesse lived. As for Abby herself,Marie gravely informed her that shewas an angel. Abby laughed, not ill

pleased. "I don't look special likeangels," she said; "that is, if the picturesI've seen are correct. Not much wingsand curls and white robes about me,Maree. And who ever heard of an angelin a check apurn, I want to know "

But Marie was not to be turned aside. Itwas well known, she said, that angelscould not come to earth undisguised inthese days. It had something to do withthe Jews, she did not know exactlywhat. Mere Jeanne had told her, but sheforgot just how it was. But as to theirnot coming at all, that would be out ofthe question, for how would the goodGod know what was going on downhere, or know who was behaving well

and meriting a crown of glory, andwho should go down into the pit Didnot Abby see that

Abby privately thought that here wasstrange heathen talk to be going on inher kitchen; but she said nothing, onlygave her guest more jam, and said shewas eating nothing, the proper formulafor a good hostess, no matter howmuch the guest may have devoured.

It was true, as has been said before, thatAbby Rock was not fair to outwardview. Nature had been in a crabbedmood when she fashioned this gaunt,angular form, these gnarled, unlovelyfeatures. An uncharitable neighbour, in

describing Abby, once said that shelooked as if she had swallowed an oldcedar fence-rail and shrunk to it; andthe description was apt enough so faras the body went. Her skin, eyes, andhair were of different shades (yet notso very different) of greyish brown; hernose was long and knotty, her mouthand chin apparently taken at randomfrom a box of misfits. Yes, the cedarfence-rail came as near to it as anythingcould. Yet somehow, no one who hadseen the light of kindness in thosefaded eyes, and heard the sweet, cordialtones of that quiet voice, thoughtmuch about their owner's looks. Peoplesaid it was a pity Abby wasn't betterfavoured, and then they thought no

more about it, but were simply thankfulthat she existed.

She had led the life that many an uglysaint leads, here in New England, andthe world over. Nurse and drudge forthe pretty younger sister, the pride andjoy of her heart, till she married andwent away to live in a distant State; thendrudge and nurse for the invalidmother, broken down by unremittingtoil. No toil would ever break Abbydown, for she was a strong woman; shehad never worked too hard that she wasaware of; but she had always worked,and never done anything else. No loverhad ever looked into her eyes or takenher hand tenderly. Not likely! she would

say to herself with a scornful sniff,eyeing her homely face in the glass. Menweren't such fools as they looked.

One or two had wanted to marry herhouse, as she expressed it, and hadasked for herself into the bargain, notseeing how they could manage itotherwise. They were not to blame forwanting the house, she thought withsome complacency, as she glancedround her sitting-room. Everything inthe room shone and twinkled. The rugswere beautifully made, and the floorunder them in the usual dining-tablecondition ascribed ever since bookswere written to the model housewife.The corner cupboards held treasures of

blue and white that it makes one acheto think of to-day, and some pieces ofIndia china besides, brought over seasby some sea-going Rock of a formergeneration: and there were silverspoons in the iron box under Abby'sbed, and the dragon tea-pot on thehigh narrow mantel-piece was alwaysfull, but not with tea-leaves. Yes, andthere was no better cow in the villagethan Abby's, save those two fancyheifers that Jacques de Arthenay hadlately bought. Altogether, she did notwonder that some of the weakerbrethren, who found their own farms"hard sledding," should think enoughof her pleasant home to be willing totake her along with it, since they could

do no better; but they did not get it.Abby found life very pleasant, now thatgrief was softened down into tenderrecollection. To be alone, and able todo things just when she wanted to dothem, and in her own way; to considerwhat she herself liked to eat, and towear, and to do; to feel that she couldcome and go, rise up and lie down, ather own will, was strange but pleasantto her. How long the pleasure wouldhave lasted is another question, for thewoman's nature was to love and toserve; but just now there was no doubtthat she was enjoying her freedom.

And now she had taken in this littlestranger, just because she felt like it; it

was a new luxury, a new amusement,that was all. Such a pretty little creature,so soft and young, and with thatbrightness in her face! Sister Lizzie waslight-complected, and this child didn'tfavour her, not the least mite; yet it wassome like the same feeling, as if it werea kitten or a pretty bird to take care of,and feed and pet. So thought Abby, asshe tucked up Marie in Sister Lizzie'slittle white bed, in the pink ribbonchamber, as she had named it in sport,after she had let Lizzie furnish it to hertaste, that last year before she wasmarried. The child looked about her asif it were a palace, instead of a lean-tochamber with a sloping roof. She hadnever seen anything like this in her life,

since those days when she went to thechateau. She touched the white wallssoftly, and passed her hand over thepink mats on the bureau withwondering awe. And then she curled upin the white bed when Abby bade her,as like a kitten as anything could be."Oh, you are good, good!" cried thechild, whom the warmth and comfortand kindness seemed to have lifted intoanother world from the cold, sordidone in which she had lived so long. Shecaught the kind hard knotted hand, andkissed it; but Abby snatched it away,and blushed to her eyebrows, feelingthat something improper had occurred."There! there!" she said, half confused,half reproving. "You don't want to do

such things as that! I've done no morethan was right, and you alone andfriendless, and night coming on. Go tosleep now, like a good girl, and we'll seein the morning." So Marie went to sleepin Sister Lizzie's bed, with her fiddlelying across her feet, since she couldnot sleep a wink otherwise, she said;and when Abby went downstairs theroom seemed cold, and she thoughthow she missed Lizzie, and wonderedif it wouldn't be pleasant to keep thispretty creature for a spell, and do forher a little, and make her up someportion of clothing. There was a realgood dress of Lizzie's, hanging thisminute in the press upstairs: she had agood mind to take it out at once and

see what could be done to it; perhapsand Abby did not go to bed very earlyherself that night.

CHAPTER IV.

POSSESSION.

Jacques De Arthenay went home thatnight like a man possessed. He wasfurious with himself, with the strangewoman who had thus set his soberthoughts in a whirl, with the verychildren in the street who had laughedand danced and encouraged her in hersinful music, to her own peril and

theirs. He thought it was only angerthat so held his mind; yet once in hishouse, seated on the little stool beforehis fire, he found himself still in thestreet, still looking down into thatlovely childish face that lifted itself soinnocently to his, still smitten to theheart by the beauty of it, and by thefear that he saw in it of his own sternaspect. He had never looked upon anywoman before. He had been proud ofit, proud of his strength and cleverness,that needed no meddlesome femalecreature coming in between him andhis business, between him and hisreligion. He had not let his hair andbeard grow, knowing nothing of suchpractices, but in heart he had been a

Nazarite from his youth up, servingGod in his harsh, unloving way; lovingGod, as he thought; certainly lovingnothing else, if it were not the dumbcreatures, to whom he was always kindand just. And now what had happenedto him He asked himself the questionsternly, sitting there before the cheerfulblaze, yet neither seeing nor feeling it.The answer seemed to cry itself in hisears, to write itself before his eyes inletters of fire. The thing had happenedthat happens in the story books, thatreally comes to pass once in a hundredyears, they say. He had seen the onewoman in the world that he wanted forhis own, to have and to hold, to loveand to cherish. She was a stranger, a

vagabond, trading in iniquity, andgaining her bread by the corruption ofsouls of men and children; and heloved her, he longed for her, and theworld meant nothing to himhenceforth unless he could have her.He put the thought away from him likea snake, but it came back and curledround his heart, and made him coldand then hot and then cold again. Washe not a professing Christian, bound bythe strictest ties Yes! How she looked,standing there with the children abouther, the little slender figure swaying toand fro to the music, the pretty headbent down so lovingly, the dark eyeslooking here and there, bright and shy,like those of a wild creature so gentle

in its nature that it knew no fear. But hehad taught her fear! yes, he saw it growunder his eyes, just as the love grew inhis own heart at the same moment.

Love! what sort of word was that forhim to be using, even in his mind To-morrow she would be gone, thiswandering fiddler, and all this would beforgotten in a day, for he had the newcattle to see to, and a hundred things ofimportance.

But was anything else of importancesave just this one girl and if he shouldlet her go on her way, out into theworld again, to certain perdition, wouldnot the guilt be partly his He, who saw

and knew the perils and pitfalls, mighthe not snatch this child from the fireand save her soul alive No! he wouldbegone, as soon as morning came, andtake this sinful body of his away fromtemptation.

How soon would Abby get through hermorning work, so that he might withsome fair pretext go to the house to seehow the stranger had slept, and howshe had fared It would be cowardly todrop the burden on Abby's shoulders,she only a woman like the rest of them,even if she had somewhat more sense.

So Jacques De Arthenay sat by his firetill it was cold and dead, a miserable

and a wrathful man; and he too sleptlittle that night.

But Marie slept long and peacefully inSister Lizzie's bed, and looked so prettyin her sleep that Abby came three timesto wake her, and three times went awayagain, unable to spoil so perfect apicture. At last, however, the dark eyesopened of their own accord, and Mariebegan to chirp and twitter, like a bird atdaybreak in its nest; only instead ofdaybreak, it was eight o'clock in themorning, a most shocking hour foranybody to be getting up. But Abbyhad been in the habit of spoiling hersister, who had a theory that she wasnever able to do anything early in the

morning, and so it was much moreconsiderate for her to stay in bed andkeep out of Abby's way. This is acomfortable theory.

"I suppose you've been an early riser,though " said Abby, as she poured thecoffee, looking meanwhile approvinglyat the figure of her guest, neatly attiredin a pink and white print gown, whichfitted her in a truly astonishing manner,proving, Abby thought in her simpleway, that it had really been a "leading,"her bringing the stranger home lastnight.

"Oh, but yes," Marie answered. "I helpalways Old Billy wiz the dogs first, they

must be exercise, and do their tricks,and then they are feed. So hungry theyare, the dogs! It make very hard not firstto feed them, hein "

"Is William feeble " Abby inquired,with some hesitation.

"Feeble, no!" said Marie, with a littlelaugh. "But old, you know, and whenhe is too much drunk it take away hismind; so then I help him, that Le Bossdoes not find out that and beat him.For he is good, you see, Old Billy, andwe make comrades togezzer always."

"Dear me!" said Abby, doubtfully. "Itdon't seem as if you ought to be going

with with that kind of person, Maree.We don't associate with drinking men,here in these parts. I don't know how itis where you come from."

Oh, there, Marie said, it was different.There the drink did not make mencrazy. This was a country where thedevil had so much power, you see, thatit made it hard for poor folks like OldBilly, who would do well enough in hercountry, and at the worst take a littletoo much at a feast or a wedding. Butin those cases, the saints took verygood care that nothing should happento them. She did not know what thesaints did in this country, or indeed, ifthere were any.

"Oh, Maree!" cried Abby, scandalised."I guess I wouldn't talk like that, if Iwas you. You you, ain't a papist, areyou, a Catholic "

Oh, no! Mere Jeanne was of theReformed religion, and had broughtMarie up so. It was a misfortune,Madame the Countess always said; butMarie preferred to be as Mere Jeannehad been. The Catholic girls in thevillage said that Mere Jeanne had gonestraight to the pit, but that proved thatthey were ignorant entirely of thethings of religion. Why, Le Boss was aCatholic, he; and everybody knew thathe had the evil eye, and that it was not

safe to come near him without makingthe horns.

"For the land's sake!" cried Abby Rock,dropping her dish-cloth into the sink,"what are you talking about, child "

"But, the horns!" Marie answeredinnocently. "When a person has the evileye, you not make at him the horns, soway " and she held out the index andlittle finger of her right hand, bendingthe other fingers down. "So!" she said;"when they so are held, the evil eye hasno power. What you do here to stophim "

"We don't believe in any such a thing!"

Abby replied, with, some severity. "Why,Maree, them's all the same as heathennotions, like witchcraft and such. Wedon't hold by none of those things inthis country at all, and I guess you'dbetter not talk about 'em."

Marie's eyes opened wide. "But," shesaid, "c'est une chose, it is a thing that allknow. As for Le Boss, you knowlisten!" she came nearer to Abby, andlowered her voice. "One night Old Billyforgot to do, I know not what, butsomesing. So when Le Boss found itout, he look at him, so," drawing herbrows down and frowning horribly,with the effect of looking like anenraged kitten, "and say noasing at all.

You see "

"Well," replied Abby. "I suppose mebbehe thought it was an accident, andmight have happened to any one."

"Not at all!" cried Marie, with dramaticemphasis, throwing out her hand with asolemn gesture. "What happen thatsame night Old Billy fall down thebank and break his leg!" She paused,and nodded like a little mandarin, topoint the moral of her tale.

"Maree!" remonstrated Abby Rock,"don't tell me you believe suchfoolishness as that! He'd have fallendown all the same if nobody had

looked anigh him. Why, good land! Inever heard of such notions."

"So it is!" Marie insisted. "Le Boss lookat him, and he break his leg. I see thebreak! Anozer day," she continued,"Coco, he is a boy that makes tumble,and he was hungry, and he took a don'tfrom the table to eat it "

"Took a what " asked Abby.

"A don't, what you call. Round, wiz ahole to put your finger!" explainedMarie. "Only in America they makezem. Not of such things in Bretagne,never. Coco took the don't, and LeBoss catch him, and look at him again,

so! Well, yes! in two hour he is sick, thatboy, and after zat for a week. A-a-a-h!yes, Le Boss! only at me he not dare tolook, for I have the charm, and heknow that, and he is afraid. Aha, yes, heis afraid of Marie too, when he wish tomake devil work.

"And here," she cried, turning suddenlyupon Abby, "you say you have no suchthing, Abiroc," this was the name shehad given her hostess, "and here, too, isthe evil eye, first what I see in this place,except the dear little children. A manyesterday came while I played, andlooked but, frightful! Ah!" she startedfrom her seat by the window, andretreated hastily to the corner. "He

comes, the same man! Put me away,Abiroc! put me away! He is bad, he iswicked! I die if he look at me!" and sheran hastily out of the room, just asJacques De Arthenay entered it.

CHAPTER V.

COURTSHIP.

Marie could hardly be persuaded tocome back into the sitting-room; andwhen she did at length come, it wasonly to sit silent in the corner, with onehand held behind her, and her eyesfixed steadfastly on the floor. In vain

Abby Rock tried to draw her into theconversation, telling her how she, Abby,and Mr. De Arthenay had been talkingabout her, and how they thought she'dbetter stay right on where she was for aspell, till she was all rested up, andknew what she wanted to do. Mr. DeArthenay would be a friend to her, andno one could be a better one, as she'dfind. But Marie only said that Monsieurwas very kind, and never raised her eyesto his. De Arthenay, on his part, was nomore at ease. He could not take his eyesfrom the slender figure, so shrinkingand modest, or the lovely downcastface. He had no words to tell her allthat was in his heart, nor would he havetold it if he could. It was still a thing of

horror to him, a thing that would surelybe cast out as soon as he came tohimself; and how better could he bringhimself to his senses than by facing thisdream, this possession of the night,and crushing it down, putting it out ofexistence So he sat still, and gazed atthe dream, and felt its reality in everyfibre of his being; and poor goodAbby sat and talked for all three, andwondered what to goodness wascoming of all this.

She wondered more and more as thedays went on. It became evident to herthat De Arthenay, her stern, silentneighbour, who had never so much aslooked at a woman before, was

"possessed" about her little guest.Marie, on the other hand, continued toregard him with terror, and never failedto make the horns secretly when heappeared; yet day after day he came, andsat silent in the sitting-room, and gazedat Marie, and wrestled with the devilwithin him. He never doubted that itwas the devil. There was noawkwardness to him in sitting thussilent; it was the habit of his life: hespoke when he had occasion to sayanything; for the rest, he consideredover-much speech as one of the cursesof our fallen state. But Abby "felt as ifshe should fly," as she expressed it toherself, while he sat there. A pall ofsilence seemed to descend upon the

room, generally so cheerful: the Frenchgirl cowered under it, and seemed toshrink visibly, like a dumb creature infright. And when he was gone, shewould spring up and run like a deer toher own little room, and seize herviolin, and play passionately, theinstrument crying under her hands, likea living creature, protesting againstgrief, against silence and darkness, andthe fear of something unknown, whichseemed to be growing out of thesilence. Sometimes Abby thought thebest thing to do would be to open thedoor of the cage, and let the little straybird flutter out, as she had fluttered inthose few days ago, by chance was it bychance

But the bird was so willing to stay; wasso happy, except when that silentshadow fell upon the cheerful house;so sweet, so grateful for littlekindnesses (and who would not bekind to her, Abby thought!); such asinging, light, pretty creature to look atand listen to! and the house had beenso quiet since mother died; and after all,it was pleasant to have some one to dofor and "putter round." Theneighbours said, There! now AbbyRock was safe to live, for she had gotanother baby to take care of; she'd ha'withered up and blown away if she hadgone on living alone, with no one tomake of.

And what talks they had, Abby andMarie! The latter told all about her earlychildhood with the good old womanwhom she called Mere Jeanne, andexplained how she came to have theLady, and to play as she did. TheCountess, it appeared, lived up at thecastle; a great lady, oh, but very great,and beautiful as the angels. She wasalone there, for the Count was away ona foreign mission, and she had no child,the Countess. So one day she sawMarie, when the latter was bringingflowers to the gardener's wife, who wasgood to her; and the Countess calledthe child to her, and took her on herknee, and talked with her. Ah, she was

good, the Countess, and lovely! Afterthat Marie was brought to the castleevery day, and the Countess played toher of the violin, and Marie knew all atonce that this was the best thing in theworld, and the dearest, and the one todie for, you understand. (But Abby didnot understand in the least.) So whenMadame the Countess saw how it was,she taught Marie, and got her the Lady,the violin which was Marie's life andsoul; and she let come down from Parisa great teacher, and they all playedtogether, the Countess his friend, formany years his pupil, and the greatviolinist, and Marie, the little peasantgirl in her blue gown and cap. He saidshe was a born musician, Marie: of

course, he was able to see things, beingof the same nature; but Mere Jeannewas unhappy, and said no good wouldcome of it. Yes, well, what is to be, youknow, that will be, and nossing else.The great teacher died, and there wasan end of him. And after a whileMonsieur the Count came home, andcarried away the Countess to live inParis, and so and so that was all!

"But not all!" cried the child, springingfrom her seat, and raising her head,which had drooped for a moment."Not all! for I have the music, see,Abiroc! All days of my life I can makemusic, make happy, make joy of myselfand ozerbodies. When I take her;

Madame, so, in my hand, I can do whatI will, no People have glad thinks, sorrythinks; what Marie tells them to have,that have they. Ah! la tonne aventure, ohgai!" and she would throw her headback and begin to play, and play till thechairs almost danced on their four legs.

De Arthenay never heard the fiddle.Abby managed it somehow, she hardlyknew how or why. He had neverspoken about the Evil Thing, as hewould have called it, since that first day;perhaps he thought that Abby hadtaken it away, as a pious churchmember should, and destroyed it fromthe face of the earth. At all events therewas no mention of it, and the only

sound he heard when he approachedthe house was the whir of Abby'swheel (for women still spun then, inthat part of the country), or the onevoice he cared to hear in the world,uplifted in some light godless song.

So things went on for a while; and thencame a change. One day Marie cameinto the sitting-room, hearing Abby callher. It was the hour of De Arthenay'sdaily visit, and he sat silent in thecorner, as usual; but Abby had an openletter in her hand, and was crying softly,with her apron hiding her good homelyface. "Maree," said the good woman,"I've got bad news. My sister Lizzie thatI've told you so much about, she's

dreadful sick, and I've got to go rightout and take care of her. Thank you,dear!" (as she felt Marie's arms roundher on the instant, and the soft voicemurmured little French sympathies inher ear), "you're real good, I'm sure, andI know you feel for me. I've got to goright off to-morrow or next day, soonas I can get things to rights and see tothe stock and things. But what istroubling me is you, Maree. I don't seewhat is to become of you, poor child,unless Well, now, you come here and sitdown by me, and listen to what Mr. DeArthenay has to say to you. You knowhe's ben your friend, Maree, ever senceyou come; so you listen to him, like agood girl."

Abby was in great trouble: indeed, shewas the most agitated of the three, forit was with outward calm, at least, thatDe Arthenay spoke; and Marie listenedquietly, too, plaiting her apron, betweenher fingers, and forgetting for themoment to make the horns with herleft hand. Briefly, he asked her to be hiswife; to come home with him, and keephis house, and share good and evil withhim. He would take care of her, he said,and and he trusted the Lord wouldbless the union. If his voice shook nowand then, if he kept his eyes lowered,that neither woman should see the lightand the struggle in them, that was hisown affair; he spoke quietly to the end,

and then drew a long breath, feelingthat he had come through better thanhe had expected.

Abby looked for an outburst of somekind from Marie, whether of tears orof sudden childish fear or anger; butneither came. Marie thanked Monsieur,and said he was very kind, very kindindeed. She would like to think about ita little, if they pleased; she would do allshe could to please them, but she wasvery young, and she would like to taketime, if Monsieur thought it not wrong:and so rising from her seat, she made alittle courtesy, with her eyes still on theground, and slipped away out of theroom, and was gone.

The others sat looking at each other,neither ready to speak first. FinallyAbby reflected that Jacques would notspeak, at all unless she began, so shesaid, with a sigh between the words; "Iguess it'll be all right, Jacques. It's onlyproper that she should have time tothink it over, and she such a child. Notbut what it's a great chance for her," sheadded hastily. "My! to get a good home,and a good provider, as I make nodoubt you would be, after the life she'sled, traipsin' here and there, and livin'with darkened heathens, or as bad. Butbut you'll be kind to her, won't you,Jacques She she's not a woman yet, inher feelin's, as you might say. She ain't

nothin' but a baby to our girls abouthere, that's brought up to see with theireyes and talk with their mouths. You'llhave patience with her, if her ways are agood deal different from what youwere used to; along back in yourmother's time "

But here good Abby paused, for shesaw that De Arthenay heard not a wordof her well-meant discourse. He satbrooding in the corner, as was hiswont, but with a light in his eyes and acolor in his cheek that Abby had neverseen before.

"Jacques De Arthenay, you are fairlypossessed!" she said, in rather an

awestruck voice, as he rose abruptly tobid her good-day. "I don't believe youcan think of anything except thatchild."

"So more I can!" said the man, lookingat her with bright, hard eyes. "Nothingelse! She is my life!" and with that heturned hastily to the door and wasgone.

"His life!" repeated Abby, gazing afterhim as he strode away down the street."Much like his life she is, the prettycreetur! And she saying that fiddle washer life, only yesterday! How are allthese lives going to work together that'swhat I want to know!" And she shook

her head, and went back to herspinning. There was no doubt inAbby's mind about Marie's answer,when she grew a little used to the newidea. Her silent suitor was many yearsolder than she, it was true, but as shesaid to him, what a chance for thefriendless wanderer! And if he lovedher now, how much more he wouldlove her when he came to know herwell, and see all her pretty ways aboutthe house, like a kitten or a bird. Andshe would respect and admire him, thatwas certain, Abby thought. He was apictur' of a man, when he got his storeclothes on, and nobody had ever had aword to say against him. He was notalker, but some thought that was no

drawback in the married state. Abbyremembered how Sister Lizzie's younghusband had tormented her withfoolish questions during the week hebad spent with them at the time of themarriage: a spruce young clerk from acity store, not knowing one end of ahoe from the other, and askingquestions all the time, and notremembering anything you told himlong enough for it to get inside hishead; though there was room enoughinside for consid'able many ideas, Abbythought. Yes, certainly, if so be one hadto be portioned with a husband, theone that said least would be the leastvexation in the end. So she was content,on the whole, and glad that Marie took

it all so quietly and sensibly, and madeno doubt the girl was turning it over inher mind, and making ready a realpretty answer for Jacques when hecalled the next day.

Yes, Marie was turning it over in hermind, but not just in the way her goodhostess supposed. Only one thoughtcame to her, but that thought filled herwhole mind; she must get away, away atonce from this place, from the sternman with the evil eye, who wanted totake her and kill her slowly, that hemight have the pleasure of seeing herdie. Ah, she knew, Marie! had she notseen wicked people before But shewould not tell Abiroc, for it would only

grieve her, and she would talk, talk, andMarie wanted no talking. She onlywanted to get away, out into the openfields once more, where nobody wouldlook at her or want to marry her, andwhere roads might be found leadingaway to golden cities, full of childrenwho liked to hear play the violin, andwho danced when one played it well.

Early next morning, while Abby wasout milking the cows, Marie stole away.She put on her little blue gown again;ah! how old and faded it looked besidethe fresh, pretty-prints that Abby wouldalways have her wear! But it was herown, and when she had it on, and theold handkerchief tied under her chin

once more, and Madame in her box,ready to go with her the world over,why, then she felt that she was Marieonce more; that this had all been amistake, this sojourn among thestrange, kind people who spoke soloud and through such long noses; thatnow her life was to begin, as she hadreally meant it to begin when she ranaway from Le Boss and his hatefultyranny.

Out she slipped, in the sweet, freshmorning. No-one saw her go, for thevillage was a busy place at all times, andat this early hour every man and womanwas busy in barn or kitchen. At onehouse a child knocked at the window, a

child for whom she had played andsung many times. He stood there in hislittle red nightgown, and nodded andlaughed; and Marie nodded back,smiling, and wondered if he would everrun away, and ever know how good,how good it was, to be alone, with noone else in the world to say, "Do this!"or "Do that!" Just as she came out, thesun rose over the hill, and looking atthe fiery ball Marie perceived that itdanced in the sky. Yes, assuredly, so itwas! There was the same waveringmotion that she had seen on every fairEaster Day that she could remember.She thought how Mere Jeanne had firstcalled her attention, to it, when she waslittle, little, just able to toddle, and had

told her that the sun danced so onEaster Morning, for joy that the GoodLord had risen from the dead; and so itwas a lesson for us all, and we mustdance on Easter Day, if we neverdanced all the rest of the year. Ah, howthey danced at home there in thevillage! But now, it was not Easter at all,and yet the sun danced; what should itmean And it came to Marie's mind thatperhaps the Good Lord had told it todance, for a sign to her that all wouldgo well, and that she was doing quiteright to run away from persons withthe evil eye. When you came to thinkof it, what was more probable Theyalways said, those girls in the village,that the saints did the things they asked

them to do. When Barbe lost her goldearring, did not Saint Joseph find it forher, and tell her to look among thepotato-parings that had been thrownout the day before and there, sureenough, it was, and the pigs nevertouching it, because they had been toldnot to touch! Well, and if the saintscould do that, it would be a pity indeedif the Good Lord could not make thesun dance when he felt like doing akind thing for a poor girl.

With the dazzle of that dancing sunstill in her eyes, with happy thoughtsfilling her mind, Marie turned thecorner of the straggling road that wascalled a street by the people who lived

along it, turned the corner, and almostfell into the arms of a man, who wascoming in the opposite direction. Bothuttered a cry at the same moment:Marie first giving a little startled shriek,but her voice dying away in terrifiedsilence as she saw the man's face; thelatter uttering a shout of delight, offierce and cruel triumph, that rang outstrangely in the quiet morning air. Forthis was Le Boss!

A man with a bloated, cruel face,sodden with drink and inflamed withall fierce and inhuman passions; astrong man, who held the trembling girlby the shoulder as if she were a reed,and gazed into her face with eyes of

fiendish triumph; an angry man, whopoured out a torrent of furious words,reproaching, threatening, by turns, as hefound his victim once more within hisgrasp, just when he had given up allhope of finding her again. Ah, but hehad her now, though! let her try it again,to run away! she would find even thistime that she had enough, but anothertime and on and on, as a coarse andbrutal man can go on to a helplesscreature that is wholly in his power.

Marie was silent, cowering in his grasp,looking about with hunted, despairingeyes. There was nothing to do, no wordto say that would help. It had all been amistake, the sun dancing, the heavens

bending down to aid and cheer her, allhad been a mistake, a lie. There wasnothing now for the rest of her life butthis, this brutality that clutched andshook her slender figure, this hatredthat hissed venomous words in her ear.This was the end, forever, till deathshould come to set her free.

But what was this what was happeningFor the hateful voice faltered, the graspon her shoulder weakened, the blaze ofthe fierce eyes turned from her. A crywas heard, a wild, inarticulate cry ofrage, of defiance; the next momentsomething rushed past her like a flash;there was a brief struggle, a shout, anoath, then a heavy fall. When the

bewildered child could clear her eyesfrom the mist of fright that cloudedthem, Le Boss was lying on the ground;and towering over him like an avengingspirit, his blue eyes aflame, his stronghands clenched for another blow, stoodJacques De Arthenay.

Just what happened next, Marie neverquite knew. Words were said as in adream. Was it a real voice that wassaying: "This is my wife, you dog! takeyourself out of my sight, before worsecomes to you!" Was it real and did LeBoss, gathering himself up from thegrass with foul curses, too horrible tothink of did he make reply that she washis property, that he had bought her,

paid for her, and would have his own!And then the other voice again, saying,"I tell you she is my wife, the wife of afree man. Speak, Mary, and tell him youare my wife!" And did she with thoseblue eyes on her, which she had nevermet before, but which now caught andchained her gaze, so that she could notlook away, try as she might did she ofher own free will answer, "Yes,Monsieur, I am your wife, if you say it;if you will keep me from him,Monsieur!" Then Marie did not knowwhat came then. There were morewords between the two men, loud andfierce on one side, low and fierce onthe other; and then Le Boss was gone,and she was walking back to the house

with the man who had saved her, theman to whom she belonged now; thestrong man, whose hand, holding hersas they walked, trembled far more thanher own. But Marie did not feel as ifshe should ever tremble again. For thatone must be alive, must have strengthin one's limbs; and was she dead, shewondered, or only asleep and wouldshe wake up some happy moment, andfind herself in the little white bed atAbiroc's house, or better still, out in theblessed fields, alone with the birdsunder the free sky

CHAPTER VI.

WEDLOCK.

They were married that very day. Abbybegged piteously for a little delay, thatshe might make clothes, and give herpretty pet a "good send-off;" but DeArthenay would not hear of it. Marywas his wife in the sight of God; let herbecome so in the sight of man! So awhite gown was found and put on thelittle passive creature, and good Abby,crying with excitement, twined someflowers in the soft dark hair, andthought that even Sister Lizzie, in herblue silk dress and chip bonnet, hadnot made so lovely a bride as thisstranger, this wandering child from no

one knew where. The wedding tookplace in Abby's parlor, with only Abbyherself and a single neighbour forwitnesses. A little crowd gatheredround the door, however, to see howJacques De Arthenay looked when he'dmade a fool of himself, as theyexpressed it. They were in a merrymood, the friendly neighbours, and hadsundry jests ready to crack upon thebridegroom when he should appear;but when he finally stood in thedoorway, with the little pale bride onhis arm, it became apparent that jestswere not in order. People calc'lated thatJacques was in one of his moods, andwas best not to be spoke with just thatmoment; besides, 't was no time for

them to be l'iterin' round staring, withall there was to be done. So the crowdmelted away, and only Abby followedthe new-married couple to their ownhome. She, walking behind in muchperturbation of spirit, noticed that onthe threshold Marie stumbled, andseemed about to fall, and that Jacqueslifted her in his arms as if she were ababy, and carried her into the room. Hehad not seemed to notice till thatmoment that the child was carrying herviolin-case, though to be sure it wasplain enough to see, but as he lifted her,it struck against the door-jamb, and heglanced down and saw it. When Abbycame in (for this was to be her good-byto them, as she was to leave that

afternoon for her sister's home), DeArthenay had the case in his hand, andwas speaking in low, earnest tones.

"You cannot have this thing, Mary! It isa thing of evil, and may not be in aChristian household. You are going toleave all those things behind you now,and there must be nothing to recall thatlife with those bad people. I will burnthe evil thing now, and it shall be asweet savour to the Lord, even amarriage sacrifice." As he spoke heopened the case, and taking out theviolin, laid it across his knee, intendingto break it into pieces; but at this Mariebroke out into a cry, so wild, sopiercing, that he paused, and Abby ran

to her and took her in, her arms, andpressed her to her kind breast, andcomforted her as one comforts a littlechild. Then she turned to the stern-eyed bridegroom.

"Jacques," she pleaded, "don't do it!don't do such a thing on your wedding-day, if you have a heart in you. Don'tyou see how she feels it Put the fiddleaway, if you don't want it round; put itup garret, and let it lay there, till she'swonted a little to doing without it. Takeit now out of her sight and your own,Jacques De Arthenay, or you'll be sorryfor it when you have done a mischiefyou can't undo."

Abby wondered afterward what powerhad spoken in her voice; it must havehad some unusual force, for DeArthenay, after a moment's hesitation,did as she bade him, turned slowly andleft the room, and the next momentwas heard mounting the garret stairs.While he was gone, she still held Mariein her arms, and begged her not totremble so, and told her that herhusband was a good man, a kind man,that he had never hurt any one in hislife except evil-doers, and had been agood son and a good brother to hisown people while they lived. Then shebade the child look around at her newhome, and see how neat and goodeverything was, and how tastefully

Jacques had arranged it all for her."Why, he vallies the ground you stepon, child!" she cried. "You don't wantto be afraid of him, dear. You can doanything you're a mind to with him, Itell you. See them flowers there, in thechaney bowl! Now he never looked at aflower in his life, Jacques didn't; butknowing you set by them, he went outand picked them pretty ones o'purpose. Now I call that realthoughtful, don't you, Maree "

So the good soul talked on, soothingthe girl, who said no word, onlytrembled, and gazed at her with wide,frightened eyes; but Abby's heart washeavy within her, and she hardly heard

her own cheery words. What kind ofunion was this likely to be, with such abeginning! Why had she not realised,before it was too late, how set Jacqueswas in his ways, and how he neverwould give in to the heathen notionsand fiddling ways of the foreign child

Sadly the good woman bade farewell tothe bridal couple, and left them alonein their new home. On the thresholdshe turned back for a moment, and hada moment's comfort; for Jacques hadtaken Marie's hands in his own, andwas gazing at her with such love in hiseyes that it must have melted a stone,Abby thought; and perhaps Mariethought so too, for she forgot to make

the horns, and smiled back, a little faintpiteous smile, into her husband's face.

So Abby went away to the West, to tendher sister, and Jacques and Marie DeArthenay began their life together.

It was not so very terrible, Marie foundafter a while. Of course a person couldnot always help it, to have the evil eye;it had happened that even the best ofpersons had it, and sometimes withoutknowing it. The Catholic girls at homein the village had a saint who alwayscarried her eyes about in a plate becausethey were evil, and she was afraid ofhurting some one with them. (PoorSaint Lucia! this is a new rendering of

thy martyrdom!) Yes, indeed! Marie wasno Catholic, but she had seen thepicture, and knew that it was so. Andoh, he did mean to be kind, herhusband! that saw itself more and moreplainly every day.

Then, there was great pleasure in thehousekeeping. Marie was a bornhousewife, with delicate French hands,and an inborn skill in cookery, thediscovery of which gave her greatdelight. Everything in the kitchen wasfresh and clean and sweet, and in thegarden were fruits, currants andblackberries and raspberries, and everykind of vegetable that grew in thevillage at home, with many more that

were strange to her. She found never-ending pleasure in concocting newdishes, little triumphs of taste anddaintiness, and trying them on hersilent husband. Sometimes he did notnotice them at all, but ate straight on,not knowing a delicate fricassee from ajunk of salt beef; that was very trying.But again he would take notice, andsmile at her with the rare sweet smilefor which she was beginning to watch,and praise the prettiness and the flavorof what was set before him. Butsometimes, too, dreadful thingshappened. One day Marie had tried hervery best, and had produced a dish forsupper of which she was justly proud,a little friture of lamb, delicate golden-

brown, with crimson beets and goldencarrots, cut in flower-shapes, neatlyranged around. Such a pretty dish wasnever seen, she thought; and she hadput it on the best platter, the blueplatter with the cow and thestrawberries on it; and when she set itbefore her husband, her dark eyes wereactually shining with pleasure, and shewas thinking that if he were verypleased, but very, very, she mightpossibly have courage to call him "Monami," which she had thought severaltimes of doing. It had such a friendlysound, "Mon ami!"

But alas! when De Arthenay came tothe table he was in one of his dark

moods; and when his eyes fell on thefestal dish, he started up, crying outthat the devil was tempting him, andthat he and his house should be lostthrough the wiles of the flesh; and socaught up the dish and flung it on thefire, and bade his trembling wife bringhim a crust of dry bread. Poor Marie!she was too frightened to cry, thoughall her woman's soul was in arms at thedestruction of good food, to saynothing of the wound to her house-wifely pride. She sat silent, eatingnothing, only making believe, when herhusband looked her way, to crumble abit of bread. And when that wretchedmeal was over, Jacques called her to hisside, and took out the great black Bible,

and read three chapters ofdenunciation from Jeremiah, that madeMarie's blood chill in her veins, andsent her shivering to her bed. The nextday he would eat nothing but Indianmeal porridge, and the next; and it wasa week before Marie ventured to try anymore experiments in cookery.

Marie had a great dread of the blackBible. She was sure it was a differentBible from the one which Mere Jeanneused to read at home, for that was fullof lovely things, while this was terrible.Sometimes Jacques would call her tohim and question her, and that wasreally too frightful for anything.Perhaps he had been reading aloud, as

he was fond of doing in the evenings,some denunciatory passage from thepsalms or the prophets. "Mary," hewould say, turning to her, as she satwith her knitting in the corner, "whatdo you think of that passage "

"I think him horreebl'," Marie wouldanswer. "Why do you read of suchthings, Jacques! Why you not have thegood Bible, as we have him in France,why "

"There is but one Bible, Mary, but onein the world; and it is all good andbeautiful, only our sinful eyes cannotalways see the glory of it."

"Ah, but no!" Marie would persist,shaking her head gravely. "MereJeanne's Bible was all ozer, so I tell you.Not black and horreebl', no! but red, allred, wiz gold on him, and in his sidepictures, all bright and preetty, andgood words, good ones, what make thegood feel in my side. Yes, that is theBible I have liked."

"Mary, I tell you it was no Bible, unlessit was this very one. They bind it in anycolour they like, don't you see, child Itisn't the cover that makes the book. Ifear you weren't brought up a Christian,Mary. It is a terrible thing to think of,my poor little wife. You must let meteach you; you must talk with Elder

Beach on Sunday afternoons. Assuredlyhe will help you, if I am foundunworthy."

But Marie would have none of this.She was a Christian, she maintained asstoutly as her great fear of her husbandwould permit. She had been baptized,and taught all that one should betaught. But it was all different. HerBible told that we must love people,but love everybody, always, all times;and this black book said that we mustkill them with swords, and dash themagainst stones, and pray bad things tohappen to them. It stood to reason thatit was not the same Bible, hein At thisJacques De Arthenay started, and took

himself by the hair with both hands, ashe did when something moved himstrongly. "Those were bad people,Mary!" he cried. "Don't you see theywithstood the Elect, and they wereslain. And we must think about thesethings, and think of our sins, and thesins of others as a warning toourselves. Sin is awful, black, horrible!and its wages is death, death, do youhear "

When he cried out in this way, like awild creature, Marie did not dare tospeak again; but she would murmurunder her breath in French, as she bentlower over her knitting, "Nevertheless,Mere Jeanne's good Lord was good,

and yours "; and then she would quietlyturn a hairpin upside down in her hair,for it was quite certain that if shecaught Jacques's eye when he was inthis mood, her hand would wither, orher hair fall out, or at the very least thecream all sour in the pans; and whenone's hands were righteously busy, aswith knitting, one might make thehorns with other things, and a hairpinwas very useful. She wished she had alittle coral hand, such as she had onceseen at a fair, with the fingers makingthe horns in the proper manner; itwould be a great convenience, shethought with a sigh.

But he was always sorry after these dark

times; and when he sat and held herhand, as he did sometimes, silent forthe most part, but gazing at her witheyes of absolute, unspeakable love,Marie was pleased, almost content: asnearly content as one could be with thehalf of one's life taken away.

CHAPTER VII.

LOOKING BACK.

The half of a life! for so Marie countedthe loss of her violin. She never spokeof this to whom should she speak Inher husband's eyes it was a thing

accursed, she knew. She almost hopedhe had forgotten about the precioustreasure that lay so quietly in some darknook in the lonely garret; for as long ashe did not think of it, it was safe there,and she should not feel that terribleanguish that had seemed to rend bodyand soul when she saw him lay theviolin across his knee to break it. AndAbby came not, and gave no sign; andthere was no one else.

She saw little of the neighbours at first.The women looked rather askance ather, and thought her little better than afool, even if she had contrived to makeone of Jacques De Arthenay. She neverseemed to understand their talk, and

had a way of looking past them, as ifunaware of their presence, that wasdisconcerting, when one thought wellof oneself. But Marie was not a fool,only a child; and she did not look at thewomen simply because she was notthinking of them. With the children,however, it was different Marie felt thatshe would have a great deal to say tothe children, if only she had the halfof her that could talk to them. Ah, howshe would speak, with Madame on herarm! What wonders she could tell them,of fairies and witches, of flowers thatsang and birds that danced! But thisother part of her was shy, and she didnot feel that she had anything worthsaying to the little ones, who looked at

her with half-frightened, half-invitingeyes when they passed her door. By-and-by, however, she mustered upcourage, and called one or two of themto her, and gave them flowers from herlittle garden. Also a pot of jam with aspoon in it proved an eloquentargument in favour of friendship; andafter a while the children fell into a wayof sauntering past with backwardglances, and were always glad to comein when Marie knocked on the window,or came smiling to the door, with herhandkerchief tied under her chin andher knitting in her hand. It was onlywhen her husband was away that thishappened; Marie would not for worldshave called a child to meet her

husband's eyes, those blue eyes ofwhich, she stood in such terror, evenwhen she grew to love them.

One little boy in particular came often,when the first shyness had worn away.He was an orphan, like Marie herself: apretty, dark-eyed little fellow, wholooked, she fancied, like the children athome in France. He did not expect herto talk and answer questions, but wascontent to sit, as she loved to do,gazing at the trees or the clouds thatwent sailing by, only now and thenuttering a few quiet words that seemedin harmony with the stillness allaround. I have said that Jacques DeArthenay's house lay somewhat apart

from the village street. It was a pleasanthouse, long and low, painted white,with vines trained over the lower part.Directly opposite was a pine grove, andhere Marie and her little friend loved tosit, listening to the murmur of thewind in the dark feathery branches. Itwas the sound of the sea, Marie toldlittle Petie. As to how it got there, thatwas another matter; but it wasundoubtedly the sound of the sea, forshe had been at sea, and recognised it atonce.

"What does it say " asked the child oneday.

"Of words," said Marie, "I hear not any,

Petie. But it wants always somesing, doyou hear It is hongry always, and makesmoans for the sorry thinks it has in itsheart."

"I am hungry in my stomach, not in myheart," objected Petie.

But Marie nodded her head sagely."Yes," she said. "It is that you know notthe deeference, Petie, bit-ween those. Tobe hongry at the stomach, that is madebetter when you eat cakes, do you see,or potatoes. But when the heart ishongry, then ah, yes, that is ozer thing."And she nodded again, and glanced upat the attic window, and sighed.

It was a long time before she spoke ofher past life; but when she found thatPetie had no sharp-eyed mother athome, only a deaf great-aunt whoasked no questions, she began to givehim little glimpses of the circus world,which filled him with awe and rapture.It was hardly a real circus, only a littlestrolling troupe, with some performingdogs, and a few trained horses andponies, and two tight-rope dancers;then there were two other musicians,and Marie herself, besides Le Boss andhis family, and Old Billy, who took careof the horses and did the dirty work. Itwas about the dogs that Petie liked bestto hear; of the wonderful feats ofMonsieur George, the great brindled

greyhound, and the astonishing sagacityof Coquelicot, the poodle.

"Monsieur George, he could jump overanything, yes! He was always jump,jump, all day long, to practise himself.Over our heads all, that was nothing,yet he did it always when we come inthe tent, pour saluer, to say the how youdo. But one day come in a man to seeLe Boss, very tall, oh, like mountains,and on him a tall hat. And MonsieurGeorge, he not stopped to measurewith his eye, for fear he be too late withthe politesse, and he jump, and carryaway the man's hat, and knock himdown and come plomp, down on him.Yes, very funny! The man got a bottle in

his hat, and that break, and run all overhim, and he say, oh, he say all thingswhat you think of. But MonsieurGeorge was so 'shamed, he go awayand hide, and not for a week we seehim again. Le Boss think that manpoison him, and he goes to beat him;but that same day Monsieur Georgecome back, and stop outside the tentand call us all to come out. And whenwe come, he run back, and say, 'Lookhere, what I do!' and he jump, and goclean over the tent, and not touch himwiz his foot. Yes, I saw it: very fine dog,Monsieur George! But Coquelicot, hehave more thinking than MonsieurGeorge. He very claiver, Coquelicot!Some of zem think him a witch, but I

think not that. He have minds, that wasall. But his legs so short, and that makehim hate Monsieur George."

"My legs are short," objected Petie,stretching out a pair of plump calves,"but that doesn't make me hate people."

"Ah, but if you see a little boy what canwalk over the roof of the house, youwant the same to do it, n'est-ce-pas "cried Marie. "You try, and try, and whenyou cannot jump, you think that not aso nize little boy as when his legs wereshort. So boy, so dog. Coquelicot, allhis life he want to jump like MonsieurGeorge, and all his life he cannot jumpat all. You say to him, 'Coquelicot, are

you foolishness you can do feeftythings and George not one of zem: youcan read the letters, and find the thingsin the pocket, and play the instrument,and sing the tune to make die peopleof laughing, yet you are not content. Lethim have in peace his legs, MonsieurGeorge, then!' But no! and every timeMonsieur George come down from thegreat jump, Coquelicot is ready, andbite his legs so hard what he can."

Petie laughed outright. "I think that'sawful funny!" he said. "I say, Mis' DeArthenay, I'd like to seen him bite hislegs. Did he holler "

"Monsieur George He cry, and go to

his bed. All the dogs, they afraid ofCoquelicot, because he have the minds.And he, Coquelicot, he fear nossing,except Madame when she is angry."

"Who was she " asked Petie, "a big dog"

"Ah, dog, no!" cried Marie, her faceflushing. "Madame my violon, my life,my pleasure, my friend. Ah, mon Dieu,what friend have I " Her breast heaved,and she broke into a wild fit of crying,forgetting the child by her side,forgetting everything in the world savethe hunger at her heart for the onecreature to whom she could speak, andwho could speak in turn to her.

Petie sat silent, frightened at the suddenstorm of sobs and tears. What had hedone, he wondered At length hemustered courage to touch his friend'sarm softly with his little hand.

"I didn't go to do it!" he said. "Don't yecry, Mis' De Arthenay! I don't knowwhat I did, but I didn't go to do it,nohow."

Marie turned and looked at him, andsmiled through her tears. "Dear littlePetie!" she said, stroking the curly head,"you done nossing, little Petie. It wasthe honger, no more! Oh, no more!"she caught her breath, but choked the

sob back bravely, and smiled again.Something woke in her child heart, andbade her not sadden the heart of theyounger child with a grief which wasnot his. It is one of the lessons of life,and it was well with Marie that shelearned it early.

"Madame, my violon," she resumedafter a pause, speaking cheerfully, andwiping her eyes with her apron, "shehave many voices, Petie; tousand voices,like all birds, all winds, all song in theworld; and she have an angry voice, too,deep down, what make you tr-remble inyour heart, if you are bad. Bien!Sometime Coquelicot, he been bad,very bad. He know so much, that make

him able for the bad, see, like for thegood. Yes! Sometime, he steal the sugar;sometime he come in when we makemusic, and make wiz us yells, and spoilthe music; sometime he make thehorreebl' faces at the poppies and makescream them with fear."

"Kin poppies scream " asked Petie,opening great eyes of wonder. "My!ourn can't. We've got big red ones,biggest ever you see, but I never heerd asound out of 'em."

Explanations ensued, and a digressionin favour of the six puppies, whosenoses were softer and whose tails werefunnier than anything else in the

known, world; and then

"So Coquelicot, he come and he sitdown before the poppies, and he openhis mouth, so!" here Marie opened herpretty mouth, and tried to look like amalicious poodle, with singular lack ofsuccess; but Petie was delighted, andclapped his hands and laughed.

"And then," Marie went on, "Lisette,she is the poppies' mother, and she hearthem, and she come wiz yells, too, andtry to drive Coquelicot, but he take herwiz his teeth and shake her, and throwher away, and go on to make faces, andall is horreebl' noise, to wake deads. SoOld Billy call me, and I come, and I go

softly behind Coquelicot, and down Iput me, and Madame speak in herangry voice justly in Coquelicot's ear.'La la! tra la li la!' deep down like so, fullwiz angryness, terreebl', yes! AndCoquelicot he jump, oh my! oh my!never he could jump so of all his life.And the tail bit-ween his legs, and therethat he run, run, as if all devils runafter him. Yes, funny, Petie, vairyfunny!" She laughed, and Petie laughedin violent, noisy peals, as children loveto do, each gust of merriment fanningthe fire for another, till all control islost, and the little one drops into anirrepressible fit of the "giggles." So theysat under the pine-trees, the twochildren, and laughed, and Marie forgot

the hunger at her heart; till suddenlyshe looked and saw her husbandstanding near, leaning on his rake andgazing at her with grave,uncomprehending eyes. Then the laughfroze on her lips, and she rose hastily,with the little timid smile which was allshe had for Jacques (yet he was hungrytoo, so hungry! and knew not whatailed him!) and went to meet him; whilePetie ran away through the grove, asfast as his little legs would carry him.

CHAPTER VIII.

A FLOWER IN THE SNOW.

The winter, when it came, was hard for

Marie. She had never known severeweather before, and this season it wasbitter cold. People shook their heads,and said that old times had come again,and no mistake. There was eager pridein the lowest mercury, and the manwhose thermometer registered thirtydegrees below zero was happier than hewho could boast but of twenty-five.There was not so much snow as inmilder seasons, but the cold heldwithout breaking, week after week: clearweather; no wind, but the air taking thebreath from the dryness of it, and inthe evening the haze hanging blue andlow that tells of intensest cold. As thesnow fell, it remained. The drifts andhollows never changed their shape, as

in a soft or a windy season, but seemedfixed as they were for all time. Acrossthe road from Jacques De Arthenay'shouse, a huge drift had been piled bythe first snowstorm of the winter.Nearly as high as the house it was, andits top combed forward, like a waveready to break; and in the blue hollowbeneath the curling crest was thelikeness of a great face. A rock croppedout, and ice had formed upon itssurface, so that the snow fell away fromit. The explanation was simple enough;Jacques De Arthenay, coming andgoing at his work, never so much aslooked at it; but to Marie it was astrange and a dreadful thing to see.Night and morning, in the cold blue

light of the winter moon and the brighthard glitter of the winter sun, the facewas always there, gazing in at herthrough the window, seeing everythingshe did, perhaps who could tell seeingeverything she thought. She changedher seat, and drew down the blind thatfaced the drift; yet it had a strangefascination for her none the less, andmany times in the day she would goand peep through the blind, and shiver,and then come away moaning in a littleway that she had when she was alone. Itwas pitiful to see how she shrank fromthe cold, the tender creature whoseemed born to live and bloom withthe flowers, perhaps to wither withthem. Sometimes it seemed to her as if

she could not bear it, as if she mustrun away and find the birds, and thegreen and joyous things that she loved.The pines were always green, it is true,in the little grove across the way; but itwas a solemn and gloomy green, to herchild's mind, she had not yet learned tolove the steadfast pines. Sometimes shewould open the door with a wildthought of flying out, of flying faraway, as the birds did, and rejoiningthem in southern countries where thesun was warm, and not a fire that frozewhile it lighted one. So cold! so cold!But when she stood thus, the little wildheart beating fiercely in her, the icy blastwould come and chill her into quietagain, and turn the blood thick, so that

it ran slower in her veins; and shewould think of the leagues and leaguesof pitiless snow and ice that laybetween her and the birds, and wouldclose the door again, and go back toher work with that little weary moan.

Her husband was very kind in thesedays; oh, very kind and gentle. He keptthe dark moods to himself, if theycame upon him, and tried even to begay, though he did not know how toset about it. If he had ever known orlooked at a child, this poor man, hewould have done better; but it was nota thing that he had ever thought of, andhe did not yet know that Marie was achild. Sometimes when she saw him

looking at her with the grave, loving,uncomprehending look that so oftenfollowed her as she moved about, shewould come to him and lay her headagainst his shoulder, and remain quietso for many minutes; but when hemoved to stroke her dark head, and say,"What is it, Mary what troubles you "she could only say that it was cold, verycold, and then go away again about herwork.

Sometimes an anguish would seize him,when he saw how pale and thin shegrew, and he would send for the villagedoctor, and beg him to give her some"stuff" that would make her plump androsy again; but the good man shook his

head, and said she needed nothing,only care and kindness, kindness, herepeated, with some emphasis, after aglance at De Arthenay's face, and goodfood. "Cheerfulness," he said,buttoning up his fur coat under hischin, "cheerfulness, Mr. De Arthenay,and plenty of good things to eat. That'sall she needs." And he went awaywondering whether the little creaturewould pull through the winter or not.

And Jacques did not throw the foodinto the fire any more; he even tried tothink about it, and care about it. Andhe got out the Farmer's Almanac, yes,he did, and tried reading the jokesaloud, to see if they would amuse

Mary; but they did not amuse her in theleast, or him either, so that was givenup. And so the winter wore on.

It had to end sometime; even thatwinter could not last forever. The irongrasp relaxed: fitfully at first, with grimclutches and snatches at its prey,gripping it the closer because it knewthe time was near when all powerwould go, drop off like a garment, meltaway like a stream. The unchangingsnow-forms began to shift, the keenoutlines wavered, grew indistinct, fellinto ruin, as the sun grew warm again,and sent down rays that were no longerlike lances of diamond. The glitteringface in the hollow of the great drift lost

its watchful look, softened, grew dimand blurred; one morning it was gone.That day Marie sang a little song, thefirst she had sung through all the long,cruel season. She drew up the blindand gazed out; she wrapped a shawlround her head and went and stood atthe door, afraid of nothing now, noteven thinking of making thosetiresome horns. She was aware ofsomething new in the air she breathed.It was still cold, but with a difference;there was a breathing as of life, whereall had been dry, cold death. There wasa sense of awakening everywhere;whispers seemed to come and go in thetops of the pine-trees, telling ofcoming things, of songs that would be

sung in their branches, as they had beensung before; of blossoms that wouldspring at their feet, brightening theworld with gold and white andcrimson.

Life! life stirring and wakingeverywhere, in sky and earth; softclouds sweeping across the blue,softening its cold brightness, droppingrain as they go; sap creeping throughthe ice-bound stems, slowly at first,then running freely, bidding the treeawake and be at its work, push out thevelvet pouch that holds the yellowcatkin, swell and polish the pointedleaf-buds: life working silently underthe ground, brown seeds opening their

leaves to make way for the tender shootthat shall draw nourishment from themand push its way on and up while theydie content, their work being done;roots creeping here and there, threadingtheir way through the earth, softening,loosening, sucking up moisture andsending it aloft to carry on the greatwork, life everywhere, pulsing in silentthrobs, the heart-beats of Nature; till atlast the time is ripe, the miracle isprepared, and

"In green underwood and coverBlossom by blossom the springbegins."

Marie too, the child-woman, standing

in her doorway, felt the thrill of newlife; heard whispers of joy, but knewnot what they meant; saw a radiance inthe air that was not all sunlight; wasconscious of a warmth at her heartwhich she had never known in hermerriest days. What did it all mean Nay,she could not tell, she was not yetawake. She thought of her friend, ofthe silent voice that had spoken sooften and so sweetly to her, and thedesire grew strong upon her. If shedied for it, she must play once more onher violin.

There came a day in spring when thedesire mastered the fear that was in her.It was a perfect afternoon, the air a-lilt

with bird-songs, and full of theperfume of early flowers. Her husbandwas ploughing in a distant field, andsurely would not return for an hour ortwo; what might one not do in an hourShe called her little friend, Petie, whowas hovering about the door, watchingfor her. Quickly, with fluttering breath,she told him what she meant to do,bade him be brave and fear nothing;locked the door, drew down the blinds,and closed the heavy wooden shutters;turned to the four corners of the room,bowing to each corner, as she mutteredsome words under her breath; and then,catching the child's hand in hers, beganswiftly and lightly to mount the atticstairs.

CHAPTER X.

DE AKTHENAY'S VIGIL.

Was it a loup-garou in the attic was it aloup-garou that drew that long, sighingbreath, as of a soul in pain; was it aloup-garou that now groped its way tothe other staircase, that which led upfrom the woodshed, pausing now andthen, and going blindly, and breathingstill heavily and slow

De Arthenay had come up to the atticin search of something, tools, maybe,

or seeds, or the like, for many oddthings were stowed away under theover-hanging rafters. He heard steps,and stood still, knowing that it must behis wife who was coming up, andthinking to have pleasure just bywatching her as she went on some littlehousehold errand, such as broughthimself. She would know nothing ofhis presence, and so she would be free,unrestrained by any shyness or or fear;if it was fear. So he had stood in hisdark corner, and had seen little, indeed,but heard all; and it was a wild and amiserable man that crept down thenarrow stairway and out into the freshair.

He did not know where he was going.He wandered on and on, hearingalways that sound in his ears, the soft,sweet tones of the accursed instrumentthat was wiling his wife, his own, hisbeloved, to her destruction. The child,too, how would it be for him But thechild was a smaller matter. Perhaps,who knows a child can live down sin.But Mary, whom he fancied saved,cured, the evil thing rooted out of herheart and remembrance!

Mary; Mary! He kept saying her nameover and over to himself, sometimesaloud, in a passion of reproach,sometimes softly, broodingly, with loveand pathos unutterable. What power

there was in that wicked voice! He hadnever rightly heard it before, never, savethat instant when she stood playing inthe village street, and he saw her for amoment and loved her forever. Oh, hehad heard, to be sure, this or thatstrolling fiddler, godless, tipplingwretches, who rarely came to the village,and never set foot there twice, hethought with pride. But this, this wasdifferent! What power! what sweetness,filling his heart with rapture even whilehis spirit cried out against it! Whatvoices, entreating, commanding,uplifting!

Nay, what was he saying and who didnot know that Satan could put on an

angel's look when it pleased him and ifa look, why not a voice When had afiddle played godly tunes, chant orpsalm when did it do aught else buttempt the foolish to their folly, thewicked to their iniquity

Mary! Mary! How lovely she was, in thefaint gleams of light that fell about her,there in the dim old attic! He felt herbeauty, almost, more than he saw it.And all this year, while he had thoughther growing in grace, silently, indeed,but he hoped truly, she had beenhankering for the forbidden thing, hadbeen planning deceit in her heart, andhad led away the innocent child tofollow unrighteousness with her. He

would go back, and do what he shouldhave done a year ago, what he wouldhave done, had he not yielded to thefoolish talk of a foolish woman. Hewould go back, and burn the fiddle,and silence forever that sweet, insidiousmusic, with its wicked murmurs thatstole into a man's heart even a man's,and one who knew the evil, andabhorred it. The smoke of it once goneup to heaven, there would be an end.He should have his wife again, his own,and nothing should come betweenthem more. Yes, he would go back, in alittle while, as soon as those soundshad died away from his ears. What wasthe song she sung there

"'Tis long and long I have loved thee!I'll ne'er forget thee more."

She would forget it, though, surely,surely, when it was gone, breathed outin flame and ashes: when he could sayto her, "There is no more any suchthing in my house and yours, Mary,Mary."

How tenderly he would tell her,though! It would hurt, yes! but not somuch as her look would hurt himwhen he told her. Ah, she loved thewooden thing best! He was dumb, andit spoke to her in a thousand tones!Even he had understood some ofthem. There was one note that was like

his mother's voice when she lifted it upin the hymn she loved best, his gentlemother, dead so long, so long ago. Shewhy, she loved music; he had forgottenthat. But only psalms, only godlyhymns, never anything else.

What devil whispered in his ear, "Shenever heard anything else. She wouldhave loved this too, this too, if she hadhad the chance, if she had heard Maryplay!" He put his hands to his ears, andalmost ran on. Where was he going Hedid not ask, did not think. He onlyknew that it was a relief to be walking,to get farther and farther away fromwhat he loved and fain would cherish,from what he hated and would fain

destroy.

The grass grew long and rank under hisfeet; he stumbled, and paused for amoment, out of breath, to look abouthim. He was in the old burying-ground, the grey stones rearing theirheads to peer at him as he hurried on.Ah, there was one stone here thatbelonged to him. He had not been inthe place since he was a child; he carednothing about the dead of long ago:but now the memory of it all cameback upon him, and he sought andfound the grey sunken stone, andpulled away the grass from it, and readthe legend with eyes that scarcely sawwhat they looked at.

"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

And the place was free from moss, asthey always said; the rude scratch, as ofa sharp-pointed instrument. Did itmean anything He dropped beside itfor a minute, and studied the stone;then rose and went his way again, stillwandering on and on, he knew notwhither.

Darkness came, and he was in thewoods, stumbling here and there,driven as by a strong wind, scorched asby a flame. At last he sank down at thefoot of a great oak-tree, in a place heknew well, even in the dark: he could

go no farther.

"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

It whispered in his ears, and seemed fora little to drown the haunting notes ofthe violin. He, the Calvinist, thepractical man, who believed in twothings outside the visible world, a greathell and a small heaven, now felt spiritsabout him, saw visions that were notof this life. His ancestor, the Huguenot,stood before him, in cloak and band; inone hand a Bible, in the other a drawndagger. His dark eyes pierced like asword-thrust; his lips moved; andthough no sound came, Jacques knewthe words they framed.

"Tenez foi! Keep the faith that Ibrought across the sea, leaving for itfair fields and vineyards, castle andtower and town. Keep the faith forwhich I bled, for which I died here inthe wilderness, leaving only thesebarren acres, and the stone that bearsmy last word, my message to those whoshould come after me. Keep the faithfor which my fair wife faded and died,far away from home and friends! Let nopiping or jigging or profane sound bein thy house, but let it be the house offasting and of prayer, even as my housewas. Keep faith! If thy right handoffend thee, cut it off and cast it fromthee!"

Who else was there, what gentle, pallidghost, with sad, faint eyes The face wasdim and shadowy, for he had been alittle child when his mother died. Shewas speaking too, but what were thesewords she was saying "Keep faith, myson! ay! but keep it with your wife too,the child you wedded whether shewould or no, and from whom you aretaking the joy of childhood, the lightof youth. Keep faith as the sun keepsit, as the summer keeps it, not as winterand the night."

What did that mean keep faith with her,with his wife how else should he do itbut by saving her from the wrath to

come, by plucking her as a flower outof the mire

"What shall I save but her soul, yea,though her body perish "

He spoke out in his trouble, and thevision seemed to shrink and waverunder his gaze; but the faint voicesighed again, or was it only the wind inthe pine-trees "Care thou for herearthly life, her earthly joy, for God ismindful of her soul."

But then the deeper note struck inagain, or was it only a stronger gust,that bowed the branches, andmurmured through all the airy depths

above him

"Keep the faith! Thou art a man, andwilt thou be drawn away by women, ofwhom the best are a stumbling-blockand a snare for the feet Destroy the evilthing! root it out from thy house! Whatare joys of this world, that we shouldthink of them Do they not lead todestruction, even the flowery path ofit, going down to the mouth of the pit,and with no way leading thence Who isthe woman for whose sake thou wiltlose thine own soul If thy right eyeoffend thee, pluck it out!"

So the night went on, and the voices, orthe wind, or his own soul, cried, and

answered, and cried again: and nopeace came.

The night passed. As it drew to a close,all sound, all motion, died away; thedarkness folded him close, like amantle; the silence pressed upon himlike hands that held him down. Like alog the man lay at the foot of the greattree, and his soul lay dead within him.

At last a change came; or did he sleep,and dream of a change A fainttrembling in the air, a faint rustling thatlost itself almost before it reached theear. It was gone, and all was still oncemore; yet with a difference. Thedarkness lay less heavily: one felt that it

hid many things, instead of filling theworld with itself alone.

Hark! the murmur again, not lost thistime, but coming and going, lightly,softly, brushing here and there, softdark wings fanning the air, making itever lighter, thinner. Gradually the veillifted; things stood out, black againstblack, then black against grey; straightmajesty of tree-trunks, bending lines ofbough and spray, tender grace of ferns.

And now, what is this A sound fromthe trees themselves, no multitudinousmurmur this time, but a single note,small and clear and sweet, breaking likea golden arrow of sound through the

cloudy depths.

Chirp, twitter! and again from the nexttree, and the next, and now from all thetrees, short triads, broken snatches, andat last the full chorus of song, choiranswering to choir, the morning hymnof the forest.

Now, in the very tree beneath which theman lay, Chrysostom, the thrush, tookup his parable, and preached hismorning sermon; and if it had been setto words, they might have beensomething like these:

"Sing! sing, brothers, sisters, little tenderones in the nest! Sing, for the morning

is come, and God has made us anotherday. Sing! for praise is sweet, and oursweetest notes must show it forth. Songis the voice that God has given us totell forth His goodness, to speak gladlyof the wondrous things He hath made.Sing, brothers and sisters! be joyful, bejoyful in the Lord! all sorrow anddarkness is gone away, away, and light ishere, and morning, and the worldwakes with us to gladness and the newday. Sing, and let your songs be all ofjoy, joy, lest there be in the wood anysorrowing creature, who might go sadlythrough the day for want of a voice ofcheer, to tell him that God is love, islove. Wake from thy dream, sad heart, ifthe friendly wood hold such an one!

Sorrow is night, and night is good, forrest, and for seeing of many stars, andfor coolness and sweet odours; butnow awake, awake, for the day is here,and the sun arises in his might, the sun,whose name is joy, is joy, and, whosevoice is praise. Sing, sing, and praise theLord!"

So the bird sang, praising God, and theother birds, from tree and shrub,answered as best they might, each withhis song of praise; and the man, lyingmotionless beneath the great tree,heard, and listened, and understood.

Still he lay there, with wide open eyes,while the golden morning broke over

him, and the light came sifting down,through the leaves, checkering all theground with gold. The wood nowglowed with colour, russet and greenand brown, wine-like red of the tree-trunks where the sun struck aslant onthem, soft yellow greens where theyoung ferns uncurled their downyheads. The air was sweet, sweet, withthe smell of morning; was the wholeworld new since last night

Suddenly from the road near by (for hehad gone round in a circle, and thewooded hollow where he lay was outof sight but not out of hearing of thecountry road which skirted the woodsfor many miles), from the road near by

came the sound of voices, men's voices,which fell strange and harsh on his ears,open for the first time to the music ofthe world, and still ringing with themorning hymn of joy. What were theseharsh voices saying

"They think she'll live now "

"Yes, she'll pull through, unless shefrets herself bad again about Jacques.Nobody'd heerd a word of him when Icome away."

"Been out all night, has he "

"Yes! went away without sayinganything to her or anybody, far as I can

make out. Been gone since yesterdayafternoon, and some say " The voicesdied away, and then the footsteps, andsilence fell once more.

CHAPTER XI.

VITA NUOVA.

De Arthenay never knew how hereached home that day. The spot wherehe had been lying was several milesfrom the white cottage, yet he wasconscious of no time, no distance. Itseemed one burning moment, amoment never to be forgotten while he

lived, till he found himself at the footof the outer stairway, the stair that ledto the attic. She might still be living,and he would not go to her without thething she craved, the thing which couldspeak to her in the voice sheunderstood.

Again a moment of half-consciousness,and he was standing in the doorway ofher bedroom, looking in with blindeyes of dread. What should he see whatstill form might break the outline ofthat white bed which she always keptso smooth and trim

The silence cried out to him with athousand voices, threatening,

condemning, blasting; but the nextmoment it was broken.

"Mon ami!" said Marie. The words werefaint, but there was a tone in them thathad never been there before. "Jacques,mon ami, you are here! You did not goto leave me "

The mist cleared from the man's eyes.He did not see Abby Rock, sitting bythe bed, crying with joyful indignation;if he had seen her, it would not havebeen in the least strange for her to bethere. He saw nothing the world heldnothing but the face that looked at himfrom the pillow, the pale face, all softand worn, yet full of light, full was it

true, or was he dreaming in the woodof love, of joy.

"Come in, Jacques!" said Abby,wondering at the look of the man."Don't make a noise, but come in andsit down!"

De Arthenay did not move, but heldout the violin in both hands with astrange gesture of submission.

"I have brought it, Mary!" he said. "Youshall always have it now. I I havelearned a little I know a little, now, ofwhat it means. I hadn't understandingbefore, Mary. I meant no unkindness toyou."

Abby laughed softly. "Jacques DeArthenay, come here!" she said. "Whatdo you suppose Maree's thinking offiddles now Come here, man alive, andsee your boy!"

But Marie laid one hand softly on theviolin, as it lay on the bed beside her,the hand that was not patting the baby;then she laid it, still softly, shyly, on herhusband's head as he knelt beside her."Jacques, mon ami," she whispered,"you are good! I too have learned. Iwas a child always, I knew nothing. Seenow, I love always Madame, my friend,and she is mine; but this, this is yourstoo, and mine too, our life, our own.

Jacques, now we both know, and God,He tell us! See, the same God, only wedid not know the first times. Now,always we know, and not forget! notforget!"

The baby woke and stirred. The tinyhand was outstretched and touched itsfather's hand, and a thrill ran throughhim from head to foot, softening thehard grain, melting, changing the fibreof his being. The husk that in thoselonely hours in the forest had beenloosened, broken, now fell away fromhim, and a new man knelt by the whitebed, silent, gazing from child to wifewith eyes more eloquent than anywords could be. The baby's hand rested

in his, and Marie laid her own over it;and Abby Rock rose and went away,closing the door softly after her.

THE END.