the future
might hold--and he did not fear it--Angelot could say to his fate:--

"To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day."

There was such a glory of happiness behind the present clouds that the
boy had never seemed to his mother more light-hearted. She listened to
his talk with his father, the smiling dispute as to what age of the moon
was the most lucky for beginning the vintage. Monsieur de Serres, with a
kindly word of indulgence for those who thought much of the moon,
contented himself with recommending fine weather and a convenient day.
Joubard, and Angelot with him, held to the old country superstition of
the waning moon.

This would throw the vintage later than Monsieur Urbain wished, and he
pointed out that De Serres was a sensible man and a philosopher. Silly
fancies, lunatical, astrological, were not much in his line.

"He is also a Calvinist," said Madame de la Mariniere. "He has no
religion--no real religion. He believes in nothing but what he can see.
Take my advice, leave Olivier on the shelf, and stick to the old ways of
the country."

"Ah, bah! and do you know why my farming has always succeeded?" said her
husband, laughing. "Because I have been guided by the wisdom of De
Serres. He is a rare man. He has as little superstition as Montaigne
himself."

"And is as worthy of a bonfire!" said Anne, but she smiled.

She was sitting at her tapestry frame, beside her two wax candles, and
while her needle went industriously in and out, her eyes were
constantly lifted to where those two sat talking. Urbain turned over
the leaves of his fat, red-edged quarto, lingering lovingly on favourite
pages. Angelot laughed and chattered, leaning easily on the table. The
adventure of last night seemed to have left no impression upon him.

"How foolish that dear Joseph was!" his mother thought. "But oh, what a
contrast to that odious dinner-party! Now, this is peace, this is what I
have prayed for, to have them both happy at home, and free of Lancilly."

But when she kissed her boy that night, looking eagerly into his face,
something cold touched her heart. For his look was far away, and the
smile in his eyes was not for her at all.

"Urbain," she said, "are you sure that all is right with Ange?"

"All, my beloved, except a little superstition about the moon, of which
life will cure him," her husband answered with his queer smile.

"The moon! Yes, he talked last night about the moon," she said. "That is