But it was in vain she said that, for Frantz Mathéus’s eyes turned ceaselessly towards the door, and the fear natural to his timid species made him blind to all Dame Catherina’s allurements. Coucou Peter, having no further excuse for getting the bottle refilled, and feeling uncomfortable in the stomach, proposed going to bed. Everybody agreed with him, for it was late; the windows of the principal room were all dark, and not the least sound was heard out of doors. Therefore Mother Windling took up the candlestick from the table, told Soffayel to shut the shutters, and begged Mathéus to be good enough to follow her. They ascended the winding stairs at the back of the kitchen, and everywhere Mathéus saw order and wise economy; the passages were lined with great cupboards, and in these cupboards, which Dame Catherina had taken care to open, he saw tall piles of carefully-folded linen, red-bordered tablecloths, napkins, hemp, and flax. Farther on, grain spread to dry on wide floors; here clover, colza, lucern grass; in another place, wheat, barley, oats; it was a true store of abundance. At last Mother Windling conducted him into a large, well-furnished bedroom, in which there were two chests of drawers, the tops of which were laden with magnificent Lunéville chinaware, and Walerysthâl glass. It contained also a canopied bedstead, as high as the Tower of Babel, and two handsome Saint Quirin looking-glasses. Darting a last look at Mathéus, and pressing his hand timidly— “I hope you’ll sleep well, Doctor,” she said, casting down her eyes, “and have no bad dreams.” She smiled, and contemplated the good man for a few seconds longer; then she closed the door, and left the illustrious philosopher. Coucou Peter, according to his custom, had gone to sleep in the barn. CHAPTER VII. That night Frantz Mathéus could not close an eye; he ceaselessly tossed and turned with a noble enthusiasm in his feather-bed, and muttered exclamations of triumph. His heroic flight from Graufthal, the miraculous conversion of Coucou Peter, his hospitable reception by Mother Windling, kept running in his head; he felt no desire to sleep; on the contrary, never had his mind been more active, more lucid, more penetrating; but the excessive warmth of his bed made him perspire outrageously; so, towards morning, he dressed himself and quietly descended into the yard to breathe. All was silent; the sun hardly lit the topmost leaves of the poplars; deep stillness reigned in the air; Mathéus, seated on the kerb of the cellar steps, contemplated in speechless absorption the aspect of this rustic dwelling and the repose of nature. The large mossy roofs, the long beams crossed by man’s industry, the tall gables, the dull skylights; in the background, the garden-gate opening into the fields, where the darkness was already beginning to fade; the vague and undistinguishable forms of the trees—all plunged the Doctor into the most agreeable meditations.