wo adjoining farms. One evening he was going
through some final formalities in a lawyer's office, when he suddenly
fell to the ground in an apoplectic fit. A mounted messenger was at once
dispatched to Jeanne, but her father died before she could arrive. The
shock was so great that it seemed to stun Jeanne and she could not
realize her loss. The body was taken back to Les Peuples, but the Abbe
Tolbiac refused to allow it to be interred with any sacred rites, in
spite of all the entreaties of the two women, so the burial took place
at night without any ceremony whatever. Then Jeanne fell into a state of
such utter depression that she took no interest in anything, and seemed
unable to comprehend the simplest things.

Paul, who was still in hiding in England, heard of his grandfather's
death through the liquidators of the company, and wrote to say he should
have come before, but he had only just heard the sad news. He concluded:
"Now you have rescued me from my difficulties, mother dear, I shall
return to France, and shall at once, come to see you."

Towards the end of that winter Aunt Lison, who was now sixty-eight, had
a severe attack of bronchitis. It turned to inflammation of the lungs,
and the old maid quietly expired.

"I will ask the good God to take pity on you, my poor little Jeanne,"
were the last words she uttered.

Jeanne followed her to the grave, saw the earth fall on the coffin, and
then sank to the ground, longing for death to take her also that she
might cease to think and to suffer. As she fell a big, strong peasant
woman caught her in her arms and carried her away as if she had been a
child; she took her back to the chateau, and Jeanne let herself be put
to bed by this stranger, who handled her so tenderly and firmly, and at
once fell asleep, for she had spent the last five nights watching beside
the old maid, and she was thoroughly exhausted by sorrow and fatigue. It
was the middle of the night when she again opened her eyes. A night-lamp
was burning on the mantelpiece, and, in the armchair, lay a woman
asleep. Jeanne did not know who it was, and, leaning over the side of
the bed, she tried to make out her features by the glimmering light of
the night-lamp. She fancied she had seen this face before, but she could
not remember when or where.

The woman was quietly sleeping, her head drooping on one shoulder, her
cap lying on the ground and her big hands hanging on each side of the
armchair. She was