The children had left off playing, and stared wide-eyed at these extraordinary proceedings. Mademoiselle ran to her little nephew, and brought him to Jules. "I recognize well the son of our poor Lolotte," said he, softly, lifting and kissing him. "And that dear Jean, where is he?" Even as he spoke there came a familiar roar from that window overlooking the court-yard, by which the painter sat at his easel almost all day. "Ohé! Monsieur Ba-Bou!" The little boy nearly jumped out of his new friend's arms. "Papa! papa! Laissez-moi, done, Mosou!--Papa!" "Is it that thou art by chance this monsieur whom they call?" laughed Jules, as he put him down. "Way, way!" cried the little man as he pattered off, with that gleeful shriek of his. "C'est moi, Mosou Ba-Bou! Ba-Bou!" "Thou knowest that great voice of our Jean," said Mademoiselle; "when he has finished his day's labor he always calls his child like that. Having worked all day for the little one, he goes now to make himself a child to play with him. He calls that to rest himself. And truly the little one idolizes his father, and for him will leave all other playfellows--even me. Come, then, Jules, let us seek Jean." And with a smiling salute to us the happy couple went arm-in-arm out of the garden. III. We did not see much of our friends the next day. After their early dinner, Jean came up the garden all alone, to smoke a pipe, and stretch his legs before he returned to his work. We thought his good-natured face was a little sad, in spite of his cheerful _abord_, as he came to our garden parlor and spoke to us. "It is a pleasure to see them, is it not?" said he, looking after the lovers, just vanishing under the archway of the court-yard, into the sunny village road. Mademoiselle had left off her sober black silk, and floated in the airiest of chintz muslins. "My good little Rose merits well her happiness. She sent that brave Jules marching four years ago, because she had promised my poor wife not to abandon her helpless infant. Truly she has been the best of little mothers to my Auguste. Jules went away angry enough; but without doubt he must have loved her all the better when he came to reflect. He has been to Italy, to Switzerland, to England--know I where? He is artist-painter, like me--of France always understood. Me, I am Flemish, and very content to be the compatriot of Rubens, of Vandyke. But Jules has very much talent: he paints also the portraits, and has made successes. He is a brave boy, and deserves his Rose." "Will the marriage take place now, at last?" we ventured to ask. "As I suppose," answered Jean, his face clouding perceptibly. "But you will not separate; you will live together, perhaps," suggested John's wife. "Ah, Madame, how can that be? Jules is of France and I of Belgium. When I married I brought my wife to Brussels; naturally he will carry his to Paris. C'est juste."