ied at the incredibly small price of one hundred and
twenty-five francs per annum.

A small entrance, opening on the corridor, led to a large room, on each
side of which was a smaller chamber, destined for the family, when the
boys and girls were too big to continue to sleep in the two dormitories,
arranged after the fashion of a large school, and reserved for the
children of both sexes. Every night the superintendence of these
dormitories was entrusted to a father and mother of a family, belonging
to the association. The lodging of which we speak, being, like all the
others, disencumbered of the paraphernalia of a kitchen--for the
cooking was done in common, and on a large scale, in another part of the
building--was kept extremely clean. A pretty large piece of carpet,
a comfortable arm-chair, some pretty-looking china on a stand of well
polished wood, some prints hung against the walls, a clock of gilt
bronze, a bed, a chest of drawers, and a mahogany secretary, announced
that the inhabitants of this apartment enjoyed not only the necessaries,
but some of the luxuries of life. Angela, who, from this time, might
be called Agricola's betrothed, justified in every point the flattering
portrait which the smith had drawn of her in his interview with poor
Mother Bunch. The charming girl, seventeen years of age at most, dressed
with as much simplicity as neatness, was seated by the side of her
mother. When Agricola entered, she blushed slightly at seeing him.

"Mademoiselle," said Agricola, "I have come to keep my promise, if your
mother has no objection."

"Certainly, M. Agricola," answered the mother of the young girl
cordially. "She would not go over the Common Dwelling-house with her
father, her brother, or me, because she wished to have that pleasure
with you today. It is quite right that you, who can talk so well, should
do the honors of the house to the new-comer. She has been waiting for
you an hour, and with such impatience!"

"Pray excuse me, mademoiselle," said Agricola, gayly; "in thinking of
the pleasure of seeing you, I forgot the hour. That is my only excuse."

"Oh, mother!" said the young girl, in a tone of mild reproach, and
becoming red as a cherry, "why did you say that?"

"Is it true, yes or no? I do not blame you for it; on the contrary. Go
with M. Agricola, child, and he will tell you, better than I can, what
all the workmen of the factory owe to M, Hardy."

"M. Agricola," said Angela, tying the