by calling down the priest’s exorcisms on the house. It would be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in return for his gifts. Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and, before him, she pretended to perceive nothing. [Illustration: (Ornament)] XV Mother Maurice One day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke to him kindly: “My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don’t eat as well as usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing it.” “No, my mother,” answered Germain, “you have always been as kind to me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody in the household.” “Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife’s death which comes back to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse, and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for you to marry again.” “Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advised me to ask don’t suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting my Catherine, I think of her all the more.” “Apparently that’s because we haven’t been able to understand your taste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a woman somewhere who is made for you, for God doesn’t make anybody without placing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to find this woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young or old, rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to give our consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never be happy while you are sorrowful.” “My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father,” answered Germain; “but your compassion brings small help to my troubles, for the girl I love doesn’t care for me.” “She is too young, then? It’s foolish for you to love a young girl.” “Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, and it’s my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working or sleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can think of nothing else.” “Then it’s like a fate cast over you, Germain. There’s but one remedy, and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It’s my duty to look into this, and see whether it’s practicable. Tell me where she lives, and what’s her name.” “Oh, my dear mother, I dare not,” said Germain, “because you will make fun of me.” “I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and I don’t wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?” “No, mother, of course not.” “Or Rosette?” “No.” “Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl in the countryside.”