“Not possible!” cried M. le Curé, feigning great astonishment. “And since when has the farm of Muiceron, which I have always seen the best supplied in the country with poultry, sheep, pigeons, and all other productions, been reduced to buy game stolen from its master for food?” “Marion bought it,” said Pierrette; “the poor girl goes after provisions, and don’t look far; she brings back what she finds, without thinking of evil.” “So Marion is mistress of the house now?” said the _curé_. “My dear friends,” he added, “this is a little incident which carries a great moral with it. I wish no further evidence to prove to you how much your grief, just at the bottom, is hurtful and wrong in reality. When I came in, Pierrette, I was pained at the disordered appearance of everything around. In a little while Muiceron will resemble the estate of an idle, lazy man who lets the ground lie fallow. What an example for the neighborhood, who looked upon you as models! Come, come, you must change all this, my good children. Commence your work; there is enough to do. I bet, Ragaud, your horses have not been curried for two weeks?” “Alas! monsieur, you are half right—not curried as they should be,” answered Ragaud in a penitent tone. “I must have lost more than six dozen eggs,” said Pierrette, looking down. “I know nothing about the eggs,” resumed M. le Curé; “but as for your chickens, who have not had a grain of food but the gravel they have scratched, they are so lean I wouldn’t eat one of them if you gave it to me.” These reproaches piqued the self‐respect of our good people more than any number of long and learned speeches uttered in a severe tone. Pierrette was deeply contrite for her faults. On setting the table, she could not keep from the eyes of M. le Curé, who spied everything designedly, the six‐pound loaf of white bread which Marion had that very morning brought home from the baker’s. This loaf, that was long and split in the middle, was not the least in the world like the bread made in the house, and proved that Pierrette had not kneaded the dough for a long time. Our _curé_ would not let the bread pass unnoticed any more than the rabbit‐ stew, said it was dry and tasteless—which was true—and seized this opportunity also to make his friends promise to resume their ordinary train of life. The supper was not very gay, it must be acknowledged, but passed off quietly, and thus this visit of the _curé_, which was followed by many others, began to bring back peace in those hearts so crushed with sorrow.