"I do not think I will leave Marthe to-day, the pain is so bad; but I do not like to disappoint old Mère Leroux. No one’s hens are laying but mine, and I promised her an egg for her fête day. She is old, and old people are like children, and very little pleases or makes them unhappy." Aline folded her work. "Do you mean you would like me to go? But of course, dear aunt." "If you will, my child. Take your warm cloak, and be back before sundown; and—Aline——" "Yes," said Aline at the door. "If you see Mathieu Leroux, stop and bid him ’Good-day.’ Just say a word or two." "I do not like Mathieu Leroux," observed Aline, with the old lift of the head. Mlle Ange flushed a little. "He has a good heart, I ’m sure he has a good heart, but he is suspicious by nature. Lately Madelon has let fall a hint or two. It does not do, my child, to let people think one is proud, or—or—in any way different." Aline’s eyes were a little startled. "What, what do you mean?" she asked. "Child, need you ask me that?" "Oh!" she said quickly. "What did Madelon say?" "Very little. You know she is afraid of her father, and so is Jean Jacques. It was to Marthe she spoke, and Marthe says Mathieu Leroux is a dangerous man; but then you know Marthe’s way. Only, if I were you, I should bid him ’Good-day,’ and say a friendly word or two as you pass." As Aline walked down to the village at a pace suited to the sharpness of the February day, Mlle Ange’s words kept ringing in her head. Had Mlle Marthe warned her far more emphatically, it would have made a slighter impression; but when Ange, who saw good in all, was aware of impending trouble, it seemed to Aline that the prospect was threatening indeed. All at once the pleasant monotony of her life at Rancy appeared to be at an end, and she looked into a cloudy and uncertain future, full of the perils from which she had had so short a respite. When she came to the inn door and found it filled by the stout form of Mathieu Leroux she did her best to smile in neighbourly fashion; but her eyes sank before his, and her voice sounded forced as she murmured, "Bonjour, Citizen." Leroux’ black eyes looked over his heavy red cheeks at her. They were full of a desire to discover something discreditable about this stranger who had dropped into their little village, and who, though a patriot’s wife, displayed none of the signs by which he, Leroux, estimated patriotism. "Bonjour," he returned, without removing his pipe. Aline struggled with her annoyance. "How is your mother to-day?" she inquired. "My aunt has sent her a new-laid egg. May I go in?"