rother birds peck at the hips and the haws--because we have no
granaries as you have. You do not like Socialism? Ah! and yet affect to
follow it."

"I!" Estmere looked at this wayside wit, this wine-house philosopher,
with a regard that asked plainly, "Are you fool or knave?"

"To be sure," answered Tricotrin. "You have chapel and chaplain yonder
at your chateau, I believe? The Book of the Christians is the very
manual of Socialism: '_You_ read the Gospel, Marat?' they cried. 'To be
sure,' said Marat. 'It is the most republican book in the world, and
sends all the rich people to hell.' If you do not like my politics,
_beau sire_, do not listen to the Revolutionist of Galilee."

* * *

Not rare on this earth is the love that cleaves to the thing it has
cherished through guilt, and through wrong, and through misery. But
rare, indeed, is the love that still lives while its portion is
oblivion, and the thing which it has followed passes away out to a joy
that it cannot share, to a light that it cannot behold.

For this is as the love of a god, which forsakes not, though its
creatures revile, and blaspheme, and deride it.

* * *

Ever and anon the old, dark, eager, noble face was lifted from its
pillow, and the withered lips murmured three words:

"Is she come?"

For Tricotrin had bent over her bed, and had murmured, "I go to seek
her, she is near;" and grand'mere had believed and been comforted, for
she knew that no lie passed his lips. And she was very still and only
the nervous working of the hard, brown, aged hand showed the longing of
her soul.

Life was going out rapidly, as the flame sinks fast in a lamp whose oil
is spent. The strong and vigorous frame, the keen and cheery will, had
warded off death so long and bravely; and now they bent under, all
suddenly, as those hardy trees will bend after a century of wind and
storm--bend but once, and only to break for ever.

The red sun in the west was in its evening glory; and through the open
lattice there were seen in the deep blue of the sky, the bough of a
snow-blossomed pear-tree, the network of the ivy, and the bees humming
among the jasmine flowers. From the distance there came faintly the
musical cries of the boatmen down the river, the voices of the
vine-tenders in the fields, the singing of a throstle on a wild-grape
tendril.

Only, in the little darkened chamber the old peasant lay quite
still--listening, throu