It was practical, and a matter of housewifely pride, that every item disposed of should be presented to the Jouy public to the best advantage. The demoiselles Coïc mingled their tears liberally with the dust they swept, but the mother went about, broom in hand, grim, strong-featured; all her years greyly stamped upon her face. She swept and scrubbed unceasingly, but every now and then she would pause in her work, sit down upright, looking into vacancy.

In the afternoon she was sitting before the fire in the room down-stairs, her chin in her palm, a parcel of unwashed brushes in her lap, when a gentle tapping came at the front door. It passed unnoticed by the old woman; her thoughts were too far off to pay heed to it, or if she heard, the knocking translated itself into the remembrance of hammer-strokes upon a coffin. When at last it asserted itself more distinctly Mère Coïc rose, and gathering the brushes up in her apron, went forward and opened the door. On the threshold stood a young girl, whose shrinking attitude and timid expression were in singular contrast to her appearance of blooming youth and health. A few yards off Mere Coïc saw a carriage drawn up.

She did not recognize her visitor, although she had a vague impression that the face was familiar to her. Perhaps she suspected meddling charity, perhaps grief made her repellent, but she stood silent in the doorway; the young girl did not speak either, she remained embarrassed, folding and unfolding her hands nervously. At last she said, "I was passing this way, and I thought perhaps, perhaps, you would let me in to see you."

"We are in sorrow here, mademoiselle," replied Mère Coïc; "we do not want visitors."

As the young girl did not move away she went on, in her unresonant voice, "If it be anything on business for my son it is too late, it is no use. He is dead."

"I know it, but it is on business all the same," said the girl eagerly, and in something of the relieved tone of one who at last found a way of beginning what she had to say. "I came because, you see, I owe him money. I am his debtor, three hundred francs. I ought to have paid them a month ago, but I was away. I had it on my mind all the time."

Who are you, mademoiselle?" said Mère Coïc. By this time her two daughters were standing behind her.

"I know," said Mère Coïc, suddenly bending her shaggy eyebrows. portrait did not give satisfaction. My son would not take your money. We shall not take it either."

Angèle saw the door closing upon her. The idea that she would not be allowed to make the act of reparation she had set out to make moved her strangely; she felt like one starving, refused a crust. She put out a resisting hand and said brusquely,

"I am fiancée to Monsieur Dufresny." The closing door stopped at once. "His fiancée ?"

"Yes," she answered, timid and blushing, now that there was hesitation in her favor.

"Then come in, mademoiselle," said the old woman gently. "All those whom he loves, are loved here," and she led the way within."

They went into the room where the big clock was ticking in one corner, and the portraits were hanging on the wall. Angèle's eyes rested upon these at once their labored ugliness, their smooth, shining surface, and brick-colored flesh tints struck her with a sense of piteous individuality.

"Yes, mademoiselle, they are beautiful pictures," said Mère Coïc, seeing her looking at them.

"And to think he found

the way of doing them all by himself! No one ever showed him how. It came to him like from Heaven. Sit down, mademoiselle, there by the fire."

Angèle sat down' the demoiselles Coïc hung about the room - and Mère Coïc continued in a mechanical voice, "Mademoiselle must forgive me what I said just now; when some one we love goes, the head gets muddled; it is like as if only our senseless body was walking about; one should say the Lord's will be done, but the thoughts go away from the words. You see, mademoiselle," she went on, stretching out her hand and pointing, "it is always beholding him, there so quiet and lonesome, that is the worst, he who was always so sociable before. Why, miss, he was as light-hearted - like a child, when his brushes were in his hand, never minding the troubles. At first, before the

the way, and he arrived unexpectedly at the château.

He did not let the servant announce him, but walked direct up to the salon. He pushed the door so gently, that Angèle for a moment did not look up. He had a glimpse of her, sitting, her graceful head bent over a book, reading aloud to the general. Eugène fancied she looked graver than of yore; but the next minute she had caught sight of him, and all her face brightened with the childlike frank delight he knew. She rose, the general turned his head, and then there came the exchange of greetings.

"So, here you are still," said Eugène, as they sat at the eleven o'clock breakfast. "Yes, it is the little one's wish," answered the general. "She has got it into her head to remain here; and, my faith, I am not sorry to obey her!"

Eugène looked at Angèle.

"Yes," she answered, nodding to him, "I wanted you to see, monsieur, that I could remain a whole autumn in the country, a winter even; and I confess I am beginning to feel a charm in it."

The child is full of mysteries. She is changed. She is saying good-bye to her follies," said the general, panting between the intervals of tugging at an obstinate cork.

"And why should I not have a mystery. It is my caprice," said Angèle, picking out a lump of sugar and putting it into her coffee."

"But still, pearls! pearls! Eugène," grumbled the general, "fine, round, and even, that would have made her friends turn green with envy. For the little one to refuse them! to ask for the money instead. It is incomprehensible. It goes beyond me."

"It is entirely mysterious," replied Dufresny.

Perhaps," replied Angèle, looking at them over the rim of her cup, "I am turning miser. These pieces of yellow gold may have a fascination for me, to feel them, pile them up, gloat over them."

Eugène laughed. He was a little perplexed, yet he was happy. Angèle was changed, and still she was herself. Her look was not less bright, but it had gained depth, and her mouth seemed more mobile.

The general would not be put off so easily. It was incomprehensible to him, that the petite should have a mystery.

"Well, you shall know it one of these days," said Angèle. "My mystery and I shall part company. For this, I shall be sorry. It is amusing to have a secret."

the yellow foliage, and turning to gold the shreds of mists, that still hung among the branches, frosting with silver the dead leaves and bronzy ferns below.

After they had passed the church and entered the village, Angèle took the lead and turned into a side street. She walked with her light and rapid step in front of her companions. Pausing before a green door, distinguished from its fellows by having no garden before it, she took out a key, inserted it, turned it, and pushed the door open. It led at once into a room, where a wood fire burned; the room was empty, no servant appeared. "I sent Rosalie in front to prepare for our reception," said Angèle in explanation.

The firelight played upon the wall, and showed it lined with drawers, ornamented with brass rings, and names in black letters. A counter rose in front of it. Upon it were placed a pair of scales, some wide

the wall hung pictures, the unmistakable work of Père Coïc.

"What is this? Where are we?" asked the general, looking around him.

"This is my pearl necklace," answered Angèle. "Come, you have not seen it all. This is the finest pearl, I admit; but there are others."

They followed her into a tiny kitchen, opening out into a garden, with fruit-trees planted in it; then up-stairs, into two bedrooms, fragrantly clean. Angèle fluttered hither and thither, pulling the curtains, drawing the blinds, pushing the chairs, showing up everything to advantage, coming and going, full of zeal.

"Is it not pretty? Do you not like my pearl necklace?" she asked at intervals, with her bright smile.

"It is the prettiest necklace in the world, a good fairy might wear it," said Eugène.

"But I don't understand," said the general.

"Does it not smell well?" she asked, when they had returned to the shop, taking two glass bowls out, and making her father and lover sniff the aromatic herbs they contained. "Is it not like the perfume of the woods in autumn?"

"Still I do not understand anything about it," remonstrated the general, with an aggrieved air. "I do not see an inch ahead of me. It is not your caprice to turn herboriste, surely?

Angèle laughed, and shrugged her shoulders.

"It would be a dainty caprice." Then her mood changed. She grew serious.

"It is for Mère Coïc. You know, father, I have spoken to you about her. She is old and left unprovided for. Her two daughters would have to go into service. They are accustomed to a home of their own, and one is a little deformed. It would be hard for them. Then, there is a tie between us."

As the general opened his mouth to give utterance to a long exclamation, she put her arms about his neck.

"If you knew all, papa, you would admire my pearl necklace. You would not wish one pearl of it otherwise. You see," she went on, with a little gasp, "la mère Coïc is so learned in herbs. The good people about will not need a doctor when she has her shop."

"I do like it-your pearl necklace," said the general, passing the back of his hand over his eyes.

"And she will look so well- a pic

gène. "Cannot you see her, with her big cap, against this background of wooden drawers and bottles, listening to the villagers' ailments, giving advice, weighing out doses in her scales? Are they not pretty my scales?"

They are too pretty. It is all too pretty," he answered smiling; "it is too much. You are like the beneficent fairy. You do not know where to stop you overwhelm with your gifts."

"Do you not think she will like the new home I have prepared for her?" asked Angèle, her face falling.

"She will be dazed by the luxury and completeness of it at first. She will scarcely know what to do. You must expect that she will have to pull it about and make it a little uglier, before she can feel completely at her ease in it."

Angèle cast a debating glance about her; then she said, looking at the paintings on the wall, "The pictures will make it seem home-like. I feel as if I could never do enough in reparation. I think she will be happy here," she went on, after a pause. "If I am a bit of a prophet, I wager this shop will be like that of the barber's, you know, in the Middle Ages -a rendezvous for all the gossip; and poor Père Coïc's pictures and genius will often be the theme of conversation."

As she continued speaking in her bright, incisive voice, the general installed himself in armchair by the fire, stretched out his leg and began to dose. Then the lovers talked in whispers, Angèle bending over the counter, Eugène on the other side, sitting in a low chair, holding her hands. She did most of the talk; he listened, watching her, with the misty sense of happiness at its height. In the twilight, the fire lit up her hair, her pure young forehead, the white draperies about her throat, the flame played upon her eyes.

"Père Coïc had queer notions of painting, all the same," said Eugène smiling, as he looked up at the walls where the pictures hung.

She looked up also, a little smile upon her lips one of her new smiles. never see one that I do not feel as I do when I come upon a wayside cross I am inclined to pray."

"To pray!" he repeated.

"Yes; and when I think of Père Coïc, he always appears with something like a halo round his poor, shabby head."

Meeting Eugène's puzzled expression of countenance, she smiled, although two