mind! It will be all the same a hundred years hence. Let us begin."

.f

And again he cast an inquiring look at Bertrand.

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'I was on my way to Le Puy," said Bertrand, "and, being weary and thirsty, asked your sister for a draught of milk. She, like a good Christian as she is, made me come in to rest myself, and partake of your meal; and, as I found her very anxious about you, I tried to beguile the time by reading to her."

"Very kind of you, master.

to some of our poor fare."

Let me help you

Bertrand reverently bent his head over his folded hands, and said a short grace.

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That ought to have come from me," said Christophe, unless, indeed, you really are a churchman of some sort, as your speech would make one think. However, this hardly seemed like a regular meal, and I said grace before breakfast, though I little knew what I was going to receive, or what I was asking the Lord to make me thankful for."

"Lucky for ourselves that we know not what a day will bring forth," said Bertrand, "but we can

never do amiss in asking the Lord's blessing on it, whatever it may prove."

"Come, Colette, come and eat too, unless you have dined already."

"I have many things to do, if you will excuse me," said she, in a broken voice, "and I'm not hungry."

Many things?" repeated Christophe, and catching hold of her reluctant hand. Drawing her towards him, he saw she was crying.

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Pshaw! leave the many things,' and come to dinner, like a good girl," said he; "don't be like-like-"

"Martha," suggested Bertrand.

Have faith

that all will be well yet, and leave to-morrow to take care of itself. Sufficient unto the day is

the evil thereof.'

"Yes,—only—”

'No onlys," said Christophe. "Come, and sit down here. What! you won't eat?"

But, Christophe, we shall have nothing for supper."

Fie on it!-I will run down to Grégoire's presently, and beg for a little bread and cheese."

"Yes, perhaps that will be the best way-the only way, in fact;—and some milk for Michel. I would rather not have done it, though."

Why, would not you do as much for them?"

"Oh yes! only-"

only—”

Only you don't like putting yourself under an obligation to them.-Nonsense!"

"Well, then, if you do go, you will say that we shall join them to-morrow?"

"Yes, yes."

After their meal, Christophe set forth to his neighbour's cottage, having previously joined his sister in cordially desiring Bertrand to accept their poor hospitality till the morrow. When he was gone, Colette busied herself in unpacking some of her bundles, and making up beds for the night; while Michel, unable to understand why it was, stood wistfully watching her. Bertrand read his books, or sat gazing over the valley; now and then talking to Colette, when she had leisure to attend to him.

Christophe returned a little before dusk, a good deal improved in spirits by dilating on his misadventure to pitying listeners. Early as the sun set, it was the signal for all the little family to

retire to rest, after Bertrand had offered up a short prayer for protection and blessing.

The next morning the inharmonious winding of a cow-horn before their door called them forth ready to start with their neighbours. It was quite a patriarchal flitting; for Grégoire, though a very small farmer, was rich compared with Christophe, and had a miscellaneous collection of cows, goats, pigs, sheep, and one or two rough ponies, which his sons were driving before them, while his old cart-horse carried not only his pretty daughter Gabrielle and sundry bundles of bedding, but two or three hen-coops full of poultry.

Christophe led out his only horse and cart, which Bertrand had already helped him to load, and placed his sister and brother in front of the luggage. He had likewise a small truck to push ; and Bertrand insisted on carrying the poultrycoop, which, however, they soon found they might just as well tie under the cart. The cottage-door was locked; Colette gave one wistful, parting look at their home, and then turned her head away with a half sigh. Fabien, the son of Grégoire, soon left his cattle in charge of a lad of

fourteen, and dropped back to speak to her. He was rather a heavy-built young man, with massive but not pleasant features, and a searching, restless expression about the eyes.

"The evening before last, you said you would not join us," said he.

"I can't hear one word you say," said Colette, smiling, and looking down upon him with an air provokingly deaf.

"I don't believe it, though," muttered he to himself. "What white teeth she has, the wretch! and her lips are as red as cherries. I say, Colette!" raising his voice, "you have a good deal of jolting there-it would tire you far less to come down and walk."

"" "Poor Michel ! I might as well throw the reins on the horse's neck at once."

If you did that, no harm would come of it. Your blind old horse would go safe enough."

'Do not deride my blind old horse; he has been a faithful servant many a year."

'Well, but, Colette, I would lead him."

And leave your own cows and sheep?"