eet with courage some such
emergency. And now the blow had fallen, and it was he who must break the
news to his mother, and be the strong prop on which she might lean. So
busy was he with these thoughts that he scarcely sensed the presence of
the faithful old priest who walked beside him. A score of confused
reveries were surging over the boy, and out of the chaos of grief,
reminiscence, and wonder, clearer ideas began to form themselves.

"We must sell the place," he declared, thinking aloud. "That will give
us some ready money to start on."

"I, too, think that might be well."

It was the quiet voice of Monsieur le Cure.

"Forgive me, Father," said the lad. "I had forgotten----"

"Do not reproach yourself, my son," replied the priest gently. "I did
not accompany you to be a burden in your sorrow--only that I might help
if I could."

He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.

Pierre glanced into his eyes gratefully.

"About the selling of the home--you think it would be wise?" he asked.

"It seems to me now to be the best plan; but I should wish to consider
the matter more carefully before I gave a final decision. Advice must
not be given too hastily."

"You see," continued Pierre, still formulating his ideas, "the constant
care of a large crop of silkworms is too hard for my mother and Marie.
We have been able to manage it one season, and we might even do it two;
but to feel we must work as hard as that forever--it is not to be
thought of. If we are to take up sericulture permanently we must have
more help, and with the comparatively small margin of profit we are able
to make we are not in a position to do that. When my father and uncle
were at home it was a very different thing. Of course I have Josef, but
he can do only the lightest part of the work. I am glad to do my share,
more than my share; but I am only a boy, Father, and not so wise nor so
strong as my father was. Nor have I his knowledge. If our crop of
cocoons should fail some season either through my lack of skill or
because of some unavoidable calamity, we should be without money on
which to live. It would be terrible. The thought fills me with fear.
Help me, Father. You are older than I. Give me your counsel. Do you
think I am right, or only a coward?"

"To face the truth is never cowardly, Pierre," answered the priest. "You
reason well, my son. To take upon yourself in future the care you have
borne this year is far too much for a lad. It is