rtopping curls as crisp as
her temper. Her short linsey petticoat was not chary of showing her
substantial ankles, while her rolled-up sleeves displayed a pair of arms
so red and robust that a Swiss milkmaid might well have envied them.

Her remark was intended for the ear of Jose Le Tardeur, her husband, a
lazy, good-natured fellow, whose eyes had been fairly henpecked out of
his head all the days of his married life. Josephte's speech hit him
without hurting him, as he remarked to a neighbor. Josephte made a
target of him every day. He was glad, for his part, that the women of
Tilly were better soldiers than the men, and so much fonder of looking
after things! It saved the men a deal of worry and a good deal of work.

"What are you saying, Jose?" exclaimed Felix, who only caught a few half
words.

"I say, Master Felix, that but for Mere Eve there would have been no
curse upon men, to make them labor when they do not want to, and no
sin either. As the Cure says, we could have lain on the grass sunning
ourselves all day long. Now it is nothing but work and pray, never play,
else you will save neither body nor soul. Master Felix, I hope you will
remember me if I come up to the Manor house."

"Ay, I will remember you, Jose," replied Felix, tartly; "but if labor
was the curse which Eve brought into the world when she ate the apple,
I am sure you are free from it. So ride up with the carts, Jose, and get
out of the way of my Lady's carriage!"

Jose obeyed, and taking off his cap, bowed respectfully to the Lady
de Tilly as she passed, leaning on the arm of Pierre Philibert, who
escorted her to her carriage.

A couple of sleek Canadian horses, sure-footed as goats and strong as
little elephants, drew the coach with a long, steady trot up the winding
road which led to the Manor House.

The road, unfenced and bordered with grass on each side of the track,
was smooth and well kept, as became the Grande Chaussee of the Barony
of Tilly. It ran sometimes through stretches of cultivated fields--green
pastures or corn-lands ripening for the sickle of the censitaire.
Sometimes it passed through cool, shady woods, full of primeval
grandeur,--part of the great Forest of Tilly, which stretched away far
as the eye could reach over the hills of the south shore. Huge oaks that
might have stood there from the beginning of the world, wide-branching
elms, and dark pines overshadowed the highway, opening now and then
into vistas of gree