wings, and you changed the stilts. Oh, I know it, I know more than you think-don't look at me like that, I cannot bear it! I tell you I hated him. Why do you always take his part?'

He was evidently wandering again; and in this suffering state, Madelon could not but feel more compassion than anger. It was impossible to leave him as she at first intended, although her pity had not yet overcome her reluctance to remain, and her thoughts were so bewildered that she longed to be quite alone. By-and-by in came the children, hungry and cross, little Georges crying, and Margot indignant. Dinner with Madelon from the pot-au-feu steadied their tempers; and, tired as she felt, it was not an ill thing for her that the rain kept them in, and that all her efforts were needed to protect the turpentine jar that stood in a corner and filled the room with its strong smell; as natural, however, to the dwellers in the huts as the air they breathed. It was late in the afternoon before the funeral party returned, very wet, in spite of the shelter of their great umbrellas; and they stood talking at the door of the hut, the men with big drops of rain hanging to their sheep-skins, and Mère Biran's long black cloak all damp and draggled about her feet. The journey and the burial had somewhat cowed her, but such a state of things could not last long, and she poured out a string of words which were lost upon Madelon, so wistfully was she watching her husband. He looked so grave and weary that at once she resolved to say nothing of her last trouble, but it was an immense comfort to get away with him into their own hut, and to give way to a little petting and coaxing which she kept for rare occasions, he submitting to it all without taking much notice.

In fact, the events of the last few days had considerably enlarged the limited circle of Pierre's thoughts, and the broader the surface the more easily it is troubled. Like many other men who are not commonly called . tender-hearted by the world, he could not bear the sight of pain, and it disturbed him to hear Paul's groans, and to think of himself as having unintentionally caused them; there was a secret sense of unfairness about it at the bottom of his heart which irritated him.

'There, that'll do,' said he ungraciously, 'you shouldn't come out from there he's sure to want something.'

'Maître Biran will change the bandages.' Madelon turned her back as she spoke; she had never before had a secret from her husband, and she was afraid of betraying this. Not that the possibility of keeping it from him altogether had yet entered her head, but that she would not tell him now. 'Poor Père Biran,' Pierre said presently with a laugh. Such a box in the ear as she gave him for letting the taper drip over her! It startled everybody.'

'At such a time!'

'Oh, she thought of her cloak. One almost expected to see the mother rise up in the coffin. The priest talked to her afterwards, I know, but there! he might as well talk to the wind. Mind you don't grow like her, Mad'lon, now there's only you two left.'

'As if I should!' said Madelon, a little nettled, 'But you saw Monsieur the Priest, and is he coming?'

'As soon as he can get this way.-Halte-là, Père Baudoin! I was going to look for you.'

'Ah,' said the old man, shaking himself like a water dog, and supporting his small bent figure on a stick, 'young bones wear better than old ones in such weather. And you've come back and left her behind? Soit-we've all got the same journey before us; next time-who knows? it may be a young one's turn.'

'You don't think it!' said Pierre uneasily. 'Paul is no worse, is he? Mad'lon, why don't you go in and see to him?'

Madelon neither went nor answered. Her father looked curiously at both. Pierre had flung himself dejectedly upon a bench; his wife with a pale face stood a little turned away from him, gazing out through the open door, and drumming impatiently on the ground with her foot.

'You are an excellent friend, my son,' said Maître Baudoin sarcastically; 'I did not know before that you and Paul were such brothers.'

‘We have been like other folk, I suppose, not more of one thing than the other. But, Père Baudoin, you might understand that one can't see a comrade lying in that way through one's own doing, and yet feel just the same as at other times.'

'Ouf, why not! If you had done it on purpose, now—' Madelon looked hastily round, her father nodded to her.

'On purpose-knowingly? If I had been the devil, you would say?'

'Well, If all Mad'lon tells us be true, he does sometimes take a turn in some of us.'

The girl was trembling from head to foot, it might have been from the cold she looked again imploringly at her father. :

without noticing,

'Or suppose it was Paul who made the change?'

'That he might break his own leg?'

'No, yours.'

He went on

'You are talking riddles, as usual, Maître Baudoin,' said Pierre wearily, and I am not clever enough to understand you.'

'Listen, then, and I will tell you,' said the old shepherd, throwing off his drawling tone, and speaking quickly and sharply. Paul Pitté stole like a thief in here when you were sleeping, and took away your stilts; Paul Pitté pierced them so finely and so cleverly that they would not snap at once, but yet would not fail to break-then he put them back. So much I guessed, but what then? It is very simple, and yet it puzzled me till I learnt it from Annette this day. The children did the same thing in fun that he did in wickedness, they carried off his stilts and put them here side by side with yours. You awoke and took the wrong ones. Simple, is it not?'

Pierre rose up, his face so blazing with anger that Madelon sprang to him and caught his arm. He shook her roughly off. Paul did that!' he said in a smothered voice.

'O Pierre, he is miserable!'

'And you knew it?'

'Only to-day, only to-day, dear Pierre. It is horrible, but do not look like that, forgive him!'

'Forgive him! Listen to me, father and wife; here I swear-’

Madelon drowned his voice with a cry that was almost a scream. 'No, no, no!'

'I swear-'

'Not that! You must not-you shall not; father, tell him so! For my sake, Pierre, for your own sake, do not swear.' She clung to him convulsively; his features were working with rage; Baudoin looked calmly on and shrugged his shoulders. 'God has struck him down; leave Paul in His Hand, you will not harm him, Pierre-promise me, promise me.'

'Let go will you!'

'Oh, he is punished already; Pierre, in the name of our dead mother I entreat you not to swear.'

Madelon spoke these words sadly and solemnly. The young man's face changed, he stood irresolute. 'She said you were a good girl,' he said hoarsely, after a minute's silence; well, it is all the same-it's in my heart. The coward!'

'What are you at high words about?' cried Mère Biran's shrill voice at the doorway. Mad'lon, don't you let those men put upon you so. I dare say now they are finding fault with the bouillie, as if we poor women hadn't got to slave and toil, and then are never allowed to drop so much as a word without having it thrown in our faces again.'

'Holy Virgin!' exclaimed Maître Baudoin, holding up his hands; 'at that rate you would have been pounded into a jelly long ago!'

Before Mère Biran had recovered herself sufficiently to retort, the two men slipped out of the hut, leaving Madelon to endure, as best she could, her neighbour's voluble advice.

CHAPTER V.

THE GENTLE RAIN.

PIERRE's fierce anger against Paul was the consequence-in part-of a violent reaction. Ever since hearing of the mistake he had made, he had been haunted by an uncomfortable remorseful feeling which had made him thoroughly miserable. He could neither bear to hear Paul's moans, nor to go away from them to find pasture for the sheep. He could not understand his own state, and resented it, growing more and

more irritable every day. Madelon's sweet temper had been tried as it had never been since her marriage. Now had come a great revulsion of feeling, and instead of relief he felt enraged at having been blinded. All the uncontrolled passion which lurked in his nature rose up at the thought that he had actually been suffering on account of this man, who had been guilty all the while of the blackest treachery. He pulled his hat over his brows, and stood moodily listening to Père Baudoin's amplifications of the story, which, whether intentionally or not, were certainly calculated to fan the flame. In the evening, though he was not actually unkind to Madelon, he watched her closely, and once or twice called her back when she attempted to leave the hut. Evidently he feared her going to Paul.

'Help me to do what is right,' prayed Madelon that night. She felt like a reed in the midst of the angry tossing passions about her.

Twice before the morning dawned, Mère Biran, who was by no means accustomed to have the nursing thrown upon her, came to the door, and screamed to Madelon to come in, for Paul was very ill; each time Pierre roughly told her to go away, for it was no business of theirs. His wife dared not remonstrate, so afraid was she of provoking some worse outbreak. For the first time in her life she was glad to see Pierre drive away the sheep in the early morning, his gun slung over his shoulder, and to feel herself free, since he had not absolutely forbidden it, to go to the Birans' hut. Paul was very ill and restless, Mère Biran excessively cross after her wakeful night, but the girl's gentle patience quieted both, and Antoine extorted a promise from her before he left that she would remain with his patient throughout the day. Pierre's fierce anger had, as it were, burnt up her own, and she felt a yearning desire for the peace and forgiveness which appeared very far away. Little Georges crawled on her lap, and put his brown dirty little paws round her neck.

'I like you,' said he; 'I like the soup.'

Even that friendly greeting was welcome.

It was so late before Pierre returned, and the night was so dark and foggy, that Madelon had time to go over in thought all the wild stories of hungry wolves and of travellers lost on the Landes, which had been impressed upon her memory as a child. She went into their own dwelling, and herself held the little lamp at the door that its feeble glimmer might serve as a beacon light. Pierre did come at last, and laughed at her fears. He brought a brace of red partridges and a teal, and was so much more cheery and like himself than in the morning, that Madelon grew radiant. Her eyes sparkled, the colour in her cheek returned, she danced along the floor for joy. When Pierre asked how she had spent the day, she answered him without hesitation. She was the more shocked at the storm which descended upon her. With pale face and quivering lips Pierre commanded her never to go near the hut again; so violent indeed was his passion that at one moment he almost

struck her. She did not move, only drew a long shuddering breath like a sob. Pierre dropped his hand ashamed.

'You will not go there?' he said presently, more quietly.

His wife did not answer-she could not.

'Never! mind that-it is a promise. Tiens, Mad'lon, I don't mean to be hard with you, you are a good child, but you must do what I tell you. And, see here, I have a piece of news for you. What would you say to going to live at Buglose?'

'I should say "Thank God,"' said she, in a low voice.

"Then it is true. I have seen Maître Gaujon to-day, and settled with him. He wants a good shepherd, and we shall have a house and a bit of land for the maize.'

Go away! go to Buglose! Madelon would have gone the next day with thankfulness, for it seemed to her as if it was scarcely possible to stay where they were. Yet there was a wall building up between herself and her husband which took away all the spring of happy anticipation. And they could not leave for a week. Every morning Pierre reiterated his command, and she nodded her head and obeyed. Once she flung her arms round him.

'O Pierre, don't go away with a stone about your neck; nothing will prosper with us! Forgive him.'

He put her angrily away, and told her to hold her tongue. With a sad heart she watched him start, not looking back to nod to her as he used to do, but striding sullenly and determinately on. Then she listened for awhile to hear if any moans of pain issued from the other hut, afraid all the while of being attacked by Mère Biran's bitter reproaches. No one but Madelon herself knew how much she had suffered from them, or with what heroic self-control she had abstained from saying a word which could criminate Paul. She let the blame rest on herself, even to the extent of letting it be supposed that it was her influence which was leading Pierre. But it was very hard to hear the sick man crying out her name in accents of piteous entreaty, and not dare to give way to the almost over-mastering impulse of compassion; very hard to be coldly greeted or taunted-even by Pierre's father and the boy Henri-and to have no answer but silence. Nevertheless, Madelon would have been strong enough to bear all this and a great deal more, could she only have felt her husband to be right. She tried with all her might to think him so, but even her love could not blind her to a higher consciousness, and the one little comfort that remained was to admire his generosity in telling no one. Madelon would have been torn to pieces sooner than let

it out herself.

One day it was the last before they left their home-Pierre was gone to Buglose to finish what yet remained to be done in the way of preliminaries; old Baudoin had driven away his sheep to the man who had bought them, Maître Gaucheran and Antoine were off with the other flock. Madelon had stood sadly by to see them go. The poor diminutive ill-fed