"Aha, my lady, I'm nearer than you thought--me!" The child drew in to its mother's side and clasped her hand. There was no fear in the little fellow's look, however; he had something of the same self-possession as the woman, and his eyes were like hers, clear, unwavering, and with a frankness that consumed you. They were wells of sincerity; open-eyed, you would have called the child, wanting a more subtle description. "I'm not to be fooled-me! Come now, let's have the count," said the man, as he whipped a greasy leather-covered book from his pocket. "Sapristi, I'm waiting. Stay yourself!" he added roughly as she moved on, and his greyish-yellow face had an evil joy at thought of the brutal work in hand. "Who are you?" she asked, but taking her time to speak. "Dame! you know who I am." "I know what you are," she answered quietly. He did not quite grasp her meaning, but the tone sounded contemptuous, and that sorted little with his self-importance. "I'm the Seigneur's bailiff--that's who I am. Gad'rabotin, don't you put on airs with me! I'm for the tribute, so off with the bag and let's see your catch." "I have never yet paid tribute to the seigneur of the manor." "Well, you'll begin now. I'm the new bailiff, and if you don't pay your tale, up you come to the court of the fief to-morrow." She looked him clearly in the eyes. "If I were a man, I should not pay the tribute, and I should go to the court of the fief to-morrow, but being a woman--" She clasped the hand of the child tightly to her for an instant, then with a sigh she took the basket from her shoulders and, opening it, added: "But being a woman, the fish I caught in the sea that belongs to God and to all men I must divide with the Seigneur whose bailiff spies on poor fisher-folk." The man growled an oath and made a motion as though he would catch her by the shoulder in anger, but the look in her eyes stopped him. Counting out the fish, and giving him three out of the eight she had caught, she said: "It matters not so much to me, but there are others poorer than I, they suffer." With a leer the fellow stooped, and, taking up the fish, put them in the pockets of his queminzolle, all slimy from the sea as they were. "Ba su, you haven't got much to take care of, have you? It don't take much to feed two mouths--not so much as it does three, Ma'm'selle." Before he had ended, the woman, without reply to the insult, took the child by the hand and moved along her homeward path towards Plemont. "A bi'tot, good-bye!" the bailiff laughed brutally. Standing with his legs apart and his hands fastened on the fish in the pockets of his long queminzolle, he called after her in sneering comment: "Ma fistre, your pride didn't fall--ba su!" Then he turned on his heel. "Eh ben, here's mackerel for supper," he added as he mounted his horse.