m always--even when he was--cross."

Madame Joyselle sniffed. "People promise a lot, but fifty years is more
than any woman expects," she answered, with considerable venom.

Joyselle sighed. "Perhaps, my dear Bathilde; you would not mind not
interrupting me again? Yes--think of the green coat. And that you did
not mind about your cap. Your life has been very useful, _ma mere_, and
you have devoted children to love you and care for you."

"Look at the crowd," cried out the old man suddenly. "It must be a
funeral!"

"Father!" Madame Chalumeau crossed herself with fingers that fairly
trembled with haste. "How _can_ you? When it is your own wedding."

As the carriage stopped Victor leaned forward and laid his hand on his
father's.

"Father--this is a splendid and--and most happy day for all of us. There
are nearly fifty of us--your descendants and their wives and husbands,
and we are very _proud_ of you. Will you give my mother your arm and
follow Bathilde and me up the steps?"

Old Joyselle skipped with great agility from the carriage, and with a
grand imitation of his son's manner followed that son into the church.

Brigit, standing near Felicite near the altar, felt her eyes fill with
tears as the little group appeared. There was something infinitely
touching in the sight of the ancient couple coming back to the altar to
renew their vows after fifty years.

The priest's voice was very weak, but it carried well under the arched
roof, and when the rings--the one for the bride bought by her male, the
one for the groom by his female descendants--were blessed and exchanged,
many people were frankly weeping.

Joyselle had not joined his wife and son, but stood opposite them, in
front of a group of relations from the country, his fine figure in its
perfect clothes contrasting strongly with them.

He was paler than Brigit had ever seen him, and his eyes, bent to the
ground for the most part, even more deeply circled than they had been
at the _cafe_ a few hours before.

The priest droned on; a baby cried, causing the bridegroom to dart a
furious glance in its direction; one of the country cousins blew his
nose with simple-hearted zest; the old couple who had been kneeling were
assisted to their feet. "_In nomine Patris, et Filii_----"

Brigit bowed her head with the rest, and then as she raised it, met
Joyselle's miserable eyes; miserable, accusing, despairing eyes.

The ceremony was over. Old Joyselle gave his ar