ch side, it was admirably preserved, with its stone
basement, its second story in wooden panels, ornamented with bricks,
its roof, of which the framework advanced at least three feet beyond the
gable, its turret for the projecting stairway at the left corner, where
could still be seen in the little window the leaden setting of long ago.
At times repairs had been made on account of its age. The tile-roofing
dated from the reign of Louis XIV, for one easily recognised the work
of that epoch; a dormer window pierced in the side of the turret, little
wooden frames replacing everywhere those of the primitive panes; the
three united openings of the second story had been reduced to two, that
of the middle being closed up with bricks, thus giving to the front the
symmetry of the other buildings on the street of a more recent date.

In the basement the changes were equally visible, an oaken door with
mouldings having taken the place of the old one with iron trimmings that
was under the stairway; and the great central arcade, of which the lower
part, the sides, and the point had been plastered over, so as to leave
only one rectangular opening, was now a species of large window, instead
of the triple-pointed one which formerly came out on to the street.

Without thinking, the child still looked at this venerable dwelling of a
master-builder, so well preserved, and as she read upon a little yellow
plate nailed at the left of the door these words, "Hubert, chasuble
maker," printed in black letters, she was again attracted by the sound
of the opening of a shutter. This time it was the blind of the square
window of the ground floor. A man in his turn looked out; his face was
full, his nose aquiline, his forehead projecting, and his thick short
hair already white, although he was scarcely yet five-and-forty. He,
too, forgot the air for a moment as he examined her with a sad wrinkle
on his great tender mouth. Then she saw him, as he remained standing
behind the little greenish-looking panes. He turned, beckoned to
someone, and his wife reappeared. How handsome she was! They both stood
side by side, looking at her earnestly and sadly.

For four hundred years, the line of Huberts, embroiderers from father
to son, had lived in this house. A noted maker of chasubles had built it
under Louis XI, another had repaired it under Louis XIV, and the Hubert
who now occupied it still embroidered church vestments, as his ancestors
had always done. A