hing and
squirming, made haste to reiterate:

"Dey're dirty loafers, de Prussians!"

And when his mother burst into tears he clung about her neck and also
began to howl dismally. _Mon Dieu_, what new evil was in store for her!
Was it not enough that she had lost in Honore the one single hope of her
life, the assured promise of oblivion and future happiness? and was that
man to appear upon the scene again to make her misery complete?

"Come," she murmured, "come along, darling, and go to bed. Mamma will
kiss her little boy all the same, for he does not know the sorrow he
causes her."

And she went from the room, leaving Prosper alone. The good fellow, not
to add to her embarrassment, had averted his eyes from her face and was
apparently devoting his entire attention to his carving.

Before putting Charlot to bed it was Silvine's nightly custom to take
him in to say good-night to Jean, with whom the youngster was on terms
of great friendship. As she entered the room that evening, holding her
candle before her, she beheld the convalescent seated upright in bed,
his open eyes peering into the obscurity. What, was he not asleep?
Faith, no; he had been ruminating on all sorts of subjects in the
silence of the winter night; and while she was cramming the stove with
coal he frolicked for a moment with Charlot, who rolled and tumbled on
the bed like a young kitten. He knew Silvine's story, and had a very
kindly feeling for the meek, courageous girl whom misfortune had tried
so sorely, mourning the only man she had ever loved, her sole comfort
that child of shame whose existence was a daily reproach to her. When
she had replaced the lid on the stove, therefore, and came to the
bedside to take the boy from his arms, he perceived by her red eyes that
she had been weeping. What, had she been having more trouble? But she
would not answer his question: some other day she would tell him what
it was if it seemed worth the while. _Mon Dieu!_ was not her life one of
continual suffering now?

Silvine was at last lugging Charlot away in her arms when there arose
from the courtyard of the farm a confused sound of steps and voices.
Jean listened in astonishment.

"What is it? It can't be Father Fouchard returning, for I did not hear
his wagon wheels." Lying on his back in his silent chamber, with nothing
to occupy his mind, he had become acquainted with every detail of the
routine of home life on the farm, of which the sounds were all