sh as delicate as the peach-blossom in the early
days of April.

Her white fichu, chastely crossed over her bosom, showed only the
graceful contour of a neck as full and round as a turtle-dove's; her
morning dress of fine myrtle-green cloth marked the shape of her slender
waist, which seemed perfect, but was likely to grow and develop, for she
was only seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk, with the pinafore
which our village women have made a great mistake in abolishing, and
which imparted so much modesty and refinement to the chest. To-day, they
spread out their fichus more proudly, but there is no longer that sweet
flower of old-fashioned pudicity in their costume that made them
resemble Holbein's virgins. They are more coquettish, more graceful. The
correct style in the old days was a sort of unbending stiffness which
made their infrequent smiles more profound and more ideal.

At the offertory, Germain, according to the usual custom, placed the
_treizain_--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his fiancee's
hand. He placed on her finger a silver ring of a shape that remained
invariable for centuries, but has since been replaced by the _band of
gold._ As they left the church, Marie whispered: "Is it the ring I
wanted? the one I asked you for, Germain?"

"Yes," he replied, "the one my Catherine had on her finger when she
died. The same ring for both my marriages."

"Thank you, Germain," said the young wife in a serious tone and with
deep feeling. "I shall die with it, and if I die before you, you must
keep it for your little Solange."

IV

THE CABBAGE

They remounted their horses, and rode rapidly back to Belair. The
banquet was a sumptuous affair, and lasted, intermingled with dancing
and singing, until midnight. The old people did not leave the table for
fourteen hours. The grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well.
He was renowned for that, and he left his ovens to come and dance and
sing between every two courses. And yet he was epileptic, was poor Pere
Bontemps. Who would have suspected it? He was as fresh and vigorous and
gay as a young man. One day we found him lying like a dead man in a
ditch, all distorted by his malady, just at nightfall. We carried him to
our house in a wheelbarrow, and passed the night taking care of him.
Three days later, he was at a wedding, singing like a thrush, leaping
like a kid, and frisking about in the old-fashioned way. On leaving a
marriag