build, in the manly joy that there is in the patient conquest, day by day, of a soil to which water and fertility must be slowly brought? Would he not gain it, above all, from the love of his wife? She, he was certain, would not fear to leave the country with him and to share his life of struggle and adventure. The blood of Dr. Guibert, so indifferent to danger, the blood of that mother who was sustained in trials by an unconquerable faith, ran in the veins of this girl whom he loved. With the selfishness of lovers, Jean forgot one person in the calculation of his future, or rather he was thoughtlessly planning to deprive this person of her sole support, of the sole sweetness of her joyless days. In Madame Guibert’s heroism he discovered new reasons for confidence in Paule, worthy of such a mother; and he did not see that he was going to ask the greatest sacrifice of all from this poor woman, to take from Niobe her last child, the only one left her by the gods, the one she might still clasp distractedly to her bosom. Along the road to Le Maupas Jean walked towards his happiness, while the lovely summer evening was shedding its light over the glad world. Old Marie ushered M. Loigny into the drawing-room and went to look for her mistress, muttering on her way, “What does the old man want of us with his frock-coat and tall hat?” But M. Loigny paid no attention to the servant whom his fashionable disguise stirred to such wrath. He had just stopped short before a bowl of roses which bloomed in the middle of the table. Bending over them he examined them so closely that it seemed as if he were sniffing at them, and all at once he began to show signs of great stupefaction. Madame Guibert found him in this curious state. He scarcely bowed to her, and leading her up to the flowers he cried: “Do you see that?” “Yes,” said she, surprised. “How did you get it?” “I don’t know, Monsieur Loigny.” “It is quite impossible that you shouldn’t know. Come, tell me!” And then, less brutally, the eccentric little man added: “I beg of you, Madame; it is very serious.” Madame Guibert politely racked her memory. “My son Étienne brought us home some rose-cuttings--they found a good soil at Le Maupas. These are their flowers. They are lovely, but they have no scent.” “Certainly, they have no scent. But I don’t mind about that. And where had your son Étienne come from?” “From Tonkin, Monsieur, from the Bay of Along, which produces flowers and fruit in abundance.” “Ah! a Chinese rose! That is it. I thought it must be. And you don’t know its name, of course. Nobody knows the names of flowers in France.” Madame Guibert excused herself smilingly, and the flower-maniac continued: