e. "Do you remember
me?"

"Oh! quite well, sir! You came here one fine morning last spring and
gave us two crowns."

"There, mother! that is for you and the children."

"Thank you kindly, sir. May Heaven bless you!"

"You must not thank me, mother," said the officer; "it is all through M.
Benassis that the money had come to you."

The old woman raised her eyes and gazed at Genestas.

"Ah! sir," she said, "he has left his property to our poor countryside,
and made all of us his heirs; but we have lost him who was worth more
than all, for it was he who made everything turn out well for us."

"Good-bye, mother! Pray for him," said Genestas, making a few playful
cuts at the children with his riding-whip.

The old woman and her little charges went out with him; they watched him
mount his horse and ride away.

He followed the road along the valley until he reached the bridle-path
that led to La Fosseuse's cottage. From the slope above the house he saw
that the door was fastened and the shutters closed. In some anxiety he
returned to the highway, and rode on under the poplars, now bare and
leafless. Before long he overtook the old laborer, who was dressed in
his Sunday best, and creeping slowly along the road. There was no bag of
tools on his shoulder.

"Good-day, old Moreau!"

"Ah! good-day, sir.... I mind who you are now!" the old fellow exclaimed
after a moment. "You are a friend of monsieur, our late mayor! Ah! sir,
would it not have been far better if God had only taken a poor rheumatic
old creature like me instead? It would not have mattered if He had taken
me, but HE was the light of our eyes."

"Do you know how it is that there is no one at home up there at La
Fosseuse's cottage?"

The old man gave a look at the sky.

"What time is it, sir? The sun has not shone all day," he said.

"It is ten o'clock."

"Oh! well, then, she will have gone to mass or else to the cemetery. She
goes there every day. He has left her five hundred livres a year and
her house for as long as she lives, but his death has fairly turned her
brain, as you may say----"

"And where are you going, old Moreau?"

"Little Jacques is to be buried to-day, and I am going to the funeral.
He was my nephew, poor little chap; he had been ailing for a long while,
and he died yesterday morning. It really looked as though it was M.
Benassis who kept him alive. That is the way! All these younger ones
die!" Moreau added, half-jestingly, half