sister, and your nephews are your nephews. You owe it
to yourself to welcome them, and you owe it to us as well. What would
people say in Issoudun? Thunder! I've got enough upon my shoulders as
it is, without hearing people say that we shut you up and don't allow
you a will of your own, or that we influence you against your
relations and are trying to get hold of your property. The devil take
me if I don't pull up stakes and be off, if that sort of calumny is to
be flung at me! the other is bad enough! Let's eat our breakfast."

Flore, who was now as mild as a weasel, helped Vedie to set the table.
Old Rouget, full of admiration for Max, took him by both hands and led
him into the recess of a window, saying in a low voice:--

"Ah! Max, if I had a son, I couldn't love him better than I love you.
Flore is right: you two are my real family. You are a man of honor,
Max, and what you have just said is true."

"You ought to receive and entertain your sister and her son, but not
change the arrangements you have made about your property," said Max.
"In that way you will do what is right in the eyes of the world, and
yet keep your promise to your father."

"Well! my dear loves!" cried Flore, gayly, "the salmi is getting cold.
Come, my old rat, here's a wing for you," she said, smiling on
Jean-Jacques.

At the words, the long-drawn face of the poor creature lost its
cadaverous tints, the smile of a Theriaki flickered on his pendent
lips; but he was seized with another fit of coughing; for the joy of
being taken back to favor excited as violent an emotion as the
punishment itself. Flore rose, pulled a little cashmere shawl from her
own shoulders, and tied it round the old man's throat, exclaiming:
"How silly to put yourself in such a way about nothing. There, you old
goose, that will do you good; it has been next my heart--"

"What a good creature!" said Rouget to Max, while Flore went to fetch
a black velvet cap to cover the nearly bald head of the old bachelor.

"As good as she is beautiful"; answered Max, "but she is quick-
tempered, like all people who carry their hearts in their hands."

The baldness of this sketch may displease some, who will think the
flashes of Flore's character belong to the sort of realism which a
painter ought to leave in shadow. Well! this scene, played again and
again with shocking variations, is, in its coarse way and its horrible
veracity, the type of such scenes played by women on whatever