ame?" inquired Pierre, at last, with eager
solemnity of face and voice. His blue eyes were fastened upon me
pityingly.

"No, Pierre," I replied.

"But you are a heretic," he pursued.

"I suppose so," I said.

"Pagans and heretics are the same," he rejoined, dogmatically; "you are
a heretic, therefore you are a pagan, madame."

"I am not a pagan," I persisted; "I am a Christian like you."

"Does Monsieur le Cure say you are a Christian?" he inquired.

"You can ask him, Pierre," I replied.

"He will know," he said, in a confident tone; "he knows every thing.
There is no cure like monsieur between Ville-en-bois and Paris. All the
world must acknowledge that. He is our priest, our doctor, our _juge de
paix_, our school-master. Did you ever know a cure like him before,
madame?"

"I never knew any cure before," I replied.

"Never knew any cure!" he repeated slowly; "then, madame, you must be a
pagan. Did you never confess? Were you never prepared for your first
communion? Oh! it is certain, madame, you are a true pagan."

We had not any more time to discuss my religion, for we were drawing
near the end of our expedition. Above the tops of the trees appeared a
tall chimney, and a sudden turn in the by-road we had taken brought us
full in sight of a small cotton-mill, built on the banks of the noisy
stream. It was an ugly, formal building, as all factories are, with
straight rows of window-frames; but both walls and roof were mouldering
into ruin, and looked as though they must before long sink into the
brawling waters that were sapping the foundations. A more
mournfully-dilapidated place I had never seen. A blight seemed to have
fallen upon it; some solemn curse might be brooding over it, and slowly
working out its total destruction.

In the yard adjoining this deserted factory stood a miserable cottage,
with a thatched roof, and eaves projecting some feet from the walls, and
reaching nearly to the ground, except where the door was. The small
casements of the upper story, if there were any, were completely hidden.
A row of _fleur-de-lis_ was springing up, green and glossy, along the
peak of the brown thatch; this and the picturesque eaves forming its
only beauty. The thatch looked old and rotten, and was beginning to
steam in the warm sunshine. The unpaved yard about it was a slough of
mire and mud. There were mould and mildew upon all the wood-work. The
place bore the aspect of a pest-house, shunned by all the