e
working for three sous a line."

And while I luxuriated under a blossoming Judas-tree which I saw in the
garden, Miraz, at ease in his home, had slipped into his working-vest,
put on his slippers, and, lying on his sofa, caught little Helen in his
arms to toss her in the air--"Houp la! Houp la!"

I do not remember ever to have had a more perfect impression of
contentment. We dined pleasantly--two good courses, that was all; a
dinner without pretence, where we served ourselves with the pepper-mill.
The charming Madame Miraz presided with her bright smile, having her
child by her side in a high-chair. She spoke but little, but her sweet
and intelligent attention followed our light and paradoxical chat, the
good-humored fooling of men of letters; and at the dessert she took a
rose from the bouquet which ornamented the table, and placed it in her
hair near her ear with a supreme grace. She was indeed that lovely and
silent friend whom a dreamer requires.

We took our coffee in the study--they intended to furnish the salon very
soon with the price of a story to be published by Levy--then, as the
evening was cool, a fire of sticks and twigs was built, and while we
smoked, Miraz and I, recalling old memories, the mistress of the house,
holding on her knees little Helen, now ready for bed, made her repeat
"Our Father" and "Hail Mary," which the little one lisped, rubbing her
little feet together before the warm flame.

* * * * *

We saw each other again, often at first, then less frequently, the
difficult and complicated life of literary labor taking us each his own
way. So the years passed. We met, shook hands. "Everything going well?"
"Splendidly." And that was all. Then, later, I found the name of Louis
Miraz but rarely in the journals and periodicals. "Happy man; he is
resting," I said to myself, remembering that he was spoken of as having
made a small fortune. Finally, last autumn, I learned that he was
seriously ill.

I hurried to see him. He still lived at the Enclos des Ternes; but on
this sombre day of the last of November the little house seemed cold,
and looked naked among the leafless trees. It seemed to me shrunken and
diminished, like everything that we have not seen for a long time.

The dog was probably dead, for his bark no longer answered the sound of
the bell when I passed the little gate and entered the garden, all
strewn with dead leaves where the night's frost had w