tience, "Come now, are you going to get angry over such a farce?" he added, in a friendly way, "The gentleman has pleaded his cause; it is just, too; but if I do not keep a carriage I know one when I see it. A millionaire, you see, is made neither with the compass nor with the drawing-pen."

"And with what, then ?" I asked.

"With money!"

I was this time of the opinion of the master-workman; but in spite of my vexation the contractor's lesson had struck home. When I regained my coolness I came to think that reason was altogether on his side. This episode had given my mind a wholesome shake. I resumed my former activity. Convinced of the necessity of instruction, I recovered my taste for study. The difficulty was to procure the means. Although it was a little painful to return to the contractor, whose recollection of me might be unpleasant, I decided to recall to him his proposition to aid me. He received me well, informed himself of what I knew, and sent me to a surveyor whom he employed. He admitted me gratuitously into an evening class to which some young people came to be instructed in geometry and drawing.

I made myself remarked at first only for stupidity and awkwardness. It was always necessary to explain to me twice what the others comprehended at the first statement; my hand, used to lifting stone, pierced the paper or crushed the crayons. I was very far behind the lowest pupil! Yet, little by little, by the force of perseverance the distance decreased and I slowly reached the average level.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MOTHER'S LAST GIFT

Y life tranquilly passed between work at the stone-yard and that of the class. From time to time I went to see my mother at Lonjumeau, and Geneviève brought me news of her. For some months the strength of the blind woman had sensibly decreased; she seldom left her easy-chair, and her mind was not clear. Mauricet was struck by it as well as myself.

"The distaff is tangled," he said to me, with his customary curtness; "beware the end of the skein!"

I repulsed this sinister prediction with a sort of anger. "What! what!" resumed the master-workman, "do you think the thing is more a smiling matter to me than to you? But the future is like men; it is always necessary to look it in the face. Do you not see that there is no benefit in closing the eyes so as not to see the evil which must come? It is beautiful to love one another, my poor child, but one day or another we must part; so much the better for those who leave first."

"And why think in advance of these cruel separations?" I asked.

"Why?" repeated Mauricet. "So as not to be taken

by surprise, my little one; to strengthen the heart and to conduct one's self like a man when the moment comes! In life, you see, the question is not to play at hide-and-seek with truth; brave people lie neither to others nor to themselves. Besides," he added, with feeling, "think of death; it is always wholesome! Whether one goes or sees another go, one wishes to leave a good memory with those who go or with those who remain, and he becomes better. Now that you are forewarned I think you will occupy yourself more with Madeleine, and that you will have a very pleasant evening after so wretched a day."

Mauricet spoke truly; his warning had resulted in making me return oftener to the farm and recalling to me more constantly my duty. At each visit I carried to my mother what I knew would please her taste, and she thanked me in embracing me as she had never done before. Perhaps, also, she felt her life ebbing, and she clung with the more affection to those whom she was so soon to leave.

"You wish to make me thank the good God for being old!" she said to me at every new care I took of her.

Then she began to talk of her youth, of the first years of her married life, of my childhood. She recalled all that I had done, all that I had said from the day of my birth; it was for her the history of the world. Geneviève listened as attentively as if she had recounted the life of Napoleon. Always watchful, always singing, she brought with her an atmosphere of cheerfulness. Her blind mistress scolded her, but in a tone which seemed to say that it was only to occupy myself with her, and

when we were alone she would repeat, "She is the youngest daughter of the good God!" Geneviève, who heard her sometimes, never appeared to do so, in order to leave the good woman the pleasure of grumbling. However, at my last visit she seemed troubled.

"Mother Madeleine gets no better," she said to me at the moment of my departure.

"Alas! my God, I have seen it!" I replied; "but she pretends not to suffer, and refuses to see a doctor." "Perhaps she is right," said the young girl; "that would only sadden her."

We exchanged a sigh, and I left with a pang at my heart.

The next day I was at a new building upon the highest scaffolding, when I heard myself called. I looked down and my heart stopped beating; it was Geneviève. "How does mother do?" I cried to her.

"Badly," she responded, in an altered voice. In an instant I had descended.

"She wishes to see you," continued Geneviève, quickly; "come immediately; the doctor said that time pressed."

We left at once. Never had the road appeared so long. It seemed to me that the horses travelled slower, that the driver stopped oftener. I should have liked to know the exact state of the old mother, but I dared not question Geneviève. We at last arrived at Lonjumeau. I took the way to the farm, almost running. Mother Riviou was not in the fields according to her habit; I saw her at the door with an air of waiting. This appeared to me a bad sign. She cried out on see

ing me. I looked at her in a way she comprehended, for she eagerly said to me, "Come in; she asks for you."

I found mother very low; yet she recognized me and extended both hands. I cannot say what passed within me then; but when I saw her thus, with leaden-colored features, glassy eyes, and lips agitated by the chill of death, the recollection of all that she had done for me suddenly traversed my mind. The idea that I was going to lose her without having requited so much kindness struck me like a knife. I uttered a cry and threw myself in her arms.

"Come, Peter, don't grieve," she said to me, very low; "I die content, since I have seen you."

I felt that it was necessary to master my pain, and I seated myself near the bed and sought to persuade her there was hope; but she would not listen to me.

"Lose no time deceiving yourself," she said to me, in a voice which grew more feeble; "I desire to tell you my last wishes; call Geneviève."

The young girl approached; the dying woman gave her the keys to her closet and asked for many things which she designated-a watch which had belonged to my father, her wedding ear-rings, a little silver goblet, and some jewelry. She had them placed upon the bed, called one after the other of the people of the house, and gave something to each one. Mother Riviou had the watch, and wished Gen

silver goblet; she gave me the evieve to take the earrings. She then chose the sheet in which they should lay her out, told how she wished to be buried, and asked that there should be upon her tomb a stone cut by myself.