whose face had a frenzied look.

"You know where the

bag is! Wretch, is it you who have taken it?"

"Come, you are a fool!" I angrily said to him. "Where is it, then? where is it?" he began to cry, looking at me.

I turned toward Faroumont.

"See here, 'Convict, the laugh has gone far enough; your joke will give 'the proprietor' the jaundice. Give him back his money, quickly."

Although he had his eyes shut, his face changed color, which proved to me that he had heard. Marcotte threw himself upon him, like a dog who shakes his prey, to reclaim his coins. Faroumont played well enough the man who awakes, and asked what they wanted; but the cries of the Auvergnat made him understand too quickly to give him time to prepare any evasion. I insisted with resolution, representing the taking of the bag as a bad joke played upon Father Marcotte with the intention of disturbing him. "The convict" was obliged to give back the money, repeating that he had wished to play a trick; yet he read upon all faces without trouble that they knew how to take him. Every one hastily dressed and left without speaking. He alone affected not to hurry, and made his toilet whistling. But when I passed before his bed he cast at me a look of malignant rage which made me tremble from head to foot. Henceforth, I was sure of having a deadly enemy.

CHAPTER VI

THE ENEMY STRIKES

NE day Mauricet said to me, "I have near Berny a debtor who failed last year, but who has come to the surface again. I must go and assure myself of the phenomenon and fish out, if possible, my hundred crowns. Take the wagon with me Saturday evening. You can go as far as Lonjumeau to see Madeleine, and I will rejoin you the next day at the Bois Riant."

The thing was agreed. I had only visited my mother twice since her departure, and the last time I had found her almost completely blind, otherwise better than ever and in fine spirits. But this was three months ago, and work had since always kept me at the stone-yard.

When I reached Lonjumeau the day was drawing to its close. I took the road which led to the house of Mother Riviou; but they had cut the trees, built inclosures, and I no more recognized the way. After having gone astray in two or three footpaths I looked around me for some one who could set me in the right direction. The nearest house was quite distant, and I did not notice at first that, for the moment, the fields were deserted. Suddenly I heard some one singing.

I recognized the refrain of an old roundel which in my child hood I had often heard my mother sing. I stopped, surprised and pleased. It was the first time I had heard this air for fifteen years. It seemed to me that I had become a child again and that I heard Madeleine restored to youth. In fact, although the voice was strong and fresh, it recalled that of my mother. There was the same manner of throwing the sounds to the wind with a gentleness tinged a little with sadness, as I have since heard the shepherdesses of Burgundy and Champagne. I approached the singer, who was busy taking down white linen from a clothes-line. I found a girl with pleasing countenance who looked me full in the face when I asked the road to the Bois Riant, and who then began laughing.

"I will wager that you are Madeleine's son," she said

to me.

I looked at her in my turn, laughing.

"And I will wager that you are the young girl that Mother Riviou expected," I responded.

"They call you Peter Henry?"

"And you Geneviève ?"

"Well, then, here is an unexpected meeting."

"As if we recognized each other without ever having seen one another!"

We broke again into laughter, and the explanations began.

I learned that my mother had completely lost her sight, but was unwilling to admit it. For the rest Geneviève declared to me that she was braver than all the young people in the house and always sang like a bird.

"Did she teach you the refrain which you have just sung?" I asked.

"Ah, you have heard me?" she replied. "Yes, yes; the good Madeleine taught me all her old songs. She said that they would help me to lull my children or those of others."

While talking she hastened to gather her linen. I aided her in making a bundle, which I took upon my shoulder.

"Well, then, so I have a servant!" she said, gayly.

And, as I told her that it was right for the son to repay that which she did for the mother, she began to speak to me of Madeleine with so much friendship that when we reached the Bois Riant I had already declared my obligation to her from the bottom of my heart.

Mother, who was at the door, recognized my voice, and did not omit to say that she had seen me. Since the darkness of night had shut her in, all her pride lay in not appearing blind. Geneviève aided her without having the appearance of it. She had surrounded the house, outside and in, with a thick cord which formed a leading-string and directed the blind one. A knot served to inform her when she approached a door, a piece of furniture, or a step. A rattle, shaken by the wind, indicated to her the location of the well. Recognizing signs had likewise been placed in the gardenpaths. Thanks to Geneviève, in short, Bois Riant was a veritable topographical chart which one could read by feeling the way. The dear woman was always moving about, found everything because they had put everything under her hand, and boasted of it each time as if

it were a proof of her clear sight. Everybody in the house respected her error and felt an innocent pleasure in keeping up the deception. She was like a spoiled child there, who made all smile and appeared welcome.

Mauricet, who had rejoined me according to his promise, understood immediately the position which Madeleine held by the kindness of her hostess.

"You have not always had your due in comfort and happiness," he said to her, "but it seems to me that now the arrears are being made up to you."

"The country is certainly agreeable," replied the good woman, who did not like to avow too loudly her

contentment.

"Yes," replied Mauricet; "but these are nice people who make the country so pleasant, and you have fallen here upon a colony of Christians of a kind not too

common."

"I do not complain," observed Madeleine.

"And you are right," continued the master-mason. "These good hearts have made up to you that which chance has taken away. That is why I advise you to thank the ailment which has brought you so many servants and friends. If you still had your eyes

"What! what! my eyes!" impatiently interrupted the old mother. "Do you imagine, by chance, that I am blind?"

"It is true-you are cured," replied Mauricet, smiling.

"And the proof is that I see you," continued Madeleine, who heard the noise of the forks. "You are at table with Peter Henry. Ah, ah! just now you have