y, and that night, before his fire, he
repeated the idea to his wife.

"Bah!" said old Jacqueline; "that is one great error of yours, my
friend. Have you turned blind?"

"I did not mean beautiful in my eyes, of course; but one kind of beauty
pleases me, thank the saints, and that is, without doubt, your own,"
replied the Frenchman, bowing toward his withered, bright-eyed old
spouse with courtly gravity. "But men of another race, now, like those
who come here in the summer, might they not think her passable?"

But old Jacqueline, although mollified, would not admit even this. A
good young lady, and kind, it was to be hoped she would be content with
the graces of piety, since she had not those of the other sort. Religion
was all-merciful.

The low island met the lake without any broken ice at its edge; it rose
slightly from the beach in a gentle slope, the snow-path leading
directly up to the house door. The sound of the bells brought Pere
Michaux himself to the entrance. "Enter, then, my children," he said;
"and you, Antoine, take the dogs round to the kitchen. Pierre is there."

Pierre was a French cook. Neither conscience nor congregation requiring
that Pere Michaux should nourish his inner man with half-baked or
cindered dishes, he enjoyed to the full the skill and affection of this
small-sized old Frenchman, who, while learning in his youth the rules,
exceptions, and sauces of his profession, became the victim of black
melancholy on account of a certain Denise, fair but cold-hearted, who,
being employed in a conservatory, should have been warmer. Perhaps
Denise had her inner fires, but they emitted no gleam toward poor
Pierre; and at last, after spoiling two breakfasts and a dinner, and
drawing down upon himself the epithet of "imbecile," the sallow little
apprentice abandoned Paris, and in a fit of despair took passage for
America, very much as he might have taken passage for Hades _via_ the
charcoal route. Having arrived in New York, instead of seeking a place
where his knowledge, small as it was, would have been prized by exiled
Frenchmen in a sauceless land, the despairing, obstinate little cook
allowed himself to drift into all sorts of incongruous situations, and
at last enlisted in the United States army, where, as he could play the
flute, he was speedily placed in special service as member of the band.
Poor Pierre! his flute sang to him only "Denise! Denise!" But the
band-master thought it could sing oth