in the court. It
was a river-driving and lumber case for which many witnesses had
been called; and there were all kinds of stray people in the
place--red-shirted river-drivers, a black-coated Methodist minister from
Chalfonte, clerks from lumber-firms, and foremen of lumber-yards; and
among these was one who greatly loved such a day as this when he could
be free from work, and celebrate himself!

Other people might celebrate saints dead and gone, and drink to 'La
Patrie', and cry "Vive Napoleon!" or "Vive la Republique!" or "Vive la
Reine!" though this last toast of the Empire was none too common--but he
could only drink with real sincerity to the health of Sebastian Dolores,
which was himself. Sebastian Dolores was the pure anarchist, the most
complete of monomaniacs.

"Here comes the father of the Spanische," remarked Mere Langlois, who
presided over a heap of household necessities, chiefly dried fruits,
preserves and pickles, as Sebastian Dolores appeared not far away.

"Good-for-nothing villain! I pity the poor priest that confesses him."

"Who is the Spanische?" asked a young woman from her own stall or stand
very near, as she involuntarily arranged her hair and adjusted her
waist-belt; for the rakish-looking reprobate, with the air of having
been somewhere, was making towards them; and she was young enough to
care how she looked when a man, who took notice, was near. Her own
husband had been a horse-doctor, farmer, and sportsman of a kind, and
she herself was now a farmer of a kind; and she had only resided in the
parish during the three years since she had been married to, and buried,
Palass Poucette.

Old Mere Langlois looked at her companion in merchanting irritably, then
she remembered that Virginie Poucette was a stranger, in a way, and was
therefore deserving of pity, and she said with compassionate patronage:
"Newcomer you--I'd forgotten. Look you then, the Spanische was the wife
of my third cousin, M'sieu' Jean Jacques, and--"

Virginie Poucette nodded, and the slight frown cleared from her low yet
shapely forehead. "Yes, yes, of course I know. I've heard enough. What
a fool she was, and M'sieu' Jean Jacques so rich and kind and
good-looking! So this is her father--well, well, well!"

Palass Poucette's widow leaned forward, and looked intently at Sebastian
Dolores, who had stopped near by, and facing a couple of barrels on
which were exposed some bottles of cordial and home-made wine. He
was addres