“Never mind,” said the countrywoman. “I shall be very happy if our daughter-in-law is like you.” “Yes,” said her husband. “I hope she will look like you.” The passenger kept up his joke; he glanced at me maliciously and said to the peasants: “When you get to Paris you will see that I am not wrong. Your son will say to you, ‘Here is my fiancée.’” A little while afterward the countrywoman turned toward me, fumbled in her basket, and pulled out a cake, saying that she had made it herself that morning. I didn’t know how to refuse her, but I said I had a bad cold and a touch of fever, and the cake went back into the basket. Then she offered me a bunch of grapes, which I was obliged to accept. And I had the greatest difficulty in preventing her husband from going to get me something hot to drink when the train stopped. As I looked at these good people, who were so anxious to love the wife their son had chosen, I felt sorry that I was not to be their daughter-in-law. I knew how sweet their affection would have been to me. I had never known my parents, and had always lived among strangers. Every now and again I caught them staring at me. When we arrived at the station in Paris I helped them lift their baskets down, and showed them the way out. I moved a little away from them as I saw a tall young man rush at them and hug them. He kissed them over and over again, one after the other. They smiled and looked very happy. They did not hear the porters shouting as they bumped into them with the luggage. I followed them to the gate. The son had passed one arm through the handle of the basket with the hens, and thrown the other round his mother’s waist. Like his father, he had happy eyes and a broad smile. Outside it was nearly dark. I turned up the collar of my coat, and I remained a few steps behind the happy old couple, while their son went to look for a cab. The countryman stroked the head of a big hen with spots of all colors, and said to his wife: “If we had known that she was not our daughter-in-law, we might have given her the spotted one.” His wife stroked the spotted hen, too, and said: “Yes, if we had known.” She made a movement toward the crowd of people who were coming out of the station, and, looking into the distance, said: “She is going off with all those people.” The son came back with a cab. He put his father and mother into it and got up onto the box by the driver. He sat sideways so as not to lose sight of them. He looked strong and gentle, and I thought, “His fiancée is a happy girl.” When the cab had disappeared I went slowly out into the streets. I could not make up my mind to go back to my lonely little room. I was twenty years old, and nobody had ever spoken of love to me. Marguerite Audoux. From _Everybody’s Magazine_, with the kind permission of the editors and of the author. JIM WOLF AND THE CATS