“Bah, Maître Frantz! she was only too glad to be rid of me. We could never agree! when I said white she said black; and that sort of thing always ended by the use of the stick. Besides, what is she in want of? She is servant to Pastor Schweitzer, one of my old Strasbourg comrades, of the time when I was employed at a beerhouse and he was studying theology. How many times have I taken him into the cellar! March beer! strong beer! foaming beer! we passed all the barrels in review. Ha! ha! ha! I can’t help laughing when I think of it! But to return to my wife; she has twelve francs a month, board and lodging, with nothing to do but look after the house, mend the linen, make the soup, and read the children a chapter out of the Bible every evening, while the pastor smokes his pipe and takes his mug of beer at the casino. What woman wouldn’t be happy leading such a life, especially as the pastor is a widower, and has never got married again?” “Certainly,” replied Mathéus, absently, “certainly; she must be very happy.” By this time they had reached the end of the village, and the illustrious philosopher observed a knot of women gesticulating about some object lying on the ground. The miller, a little man with hanging cheeks, a grey cap on his head, and white with flour from head to foot, was leaning on his door and speaking with remarkable animation. In spite of the tic-tac of the mill, and the noise of the water rushing through the sluice, he could be heard exclaiming— “Let them go to the devil! It’s no business of mine!” Maître Frantz and Coucou Peter went to see what was the matter. When they had come within a few paces the women moved away, and Mathéus saw an old gipsy woman lying against the wall, and apparently at the point of death. This old woman was so wrinkled and decrepid that she might have been a hundred years old; she said nothing, but a young gipsy on his knees beside her besought the miller to receive her into his barn. The arrival of Mathéus had somewhat moderated this man’s rage. “No, no,” he said, in a calmer tone; “the old woman might die, and all the expense of burying her would fall on me.” The illustrious doctor, grieved at such a spectacle, went up to the door, and stooping towards the miller said gently to him— “My friend, how can you refuse shelter to this unfortunate creature? Reflect that she may die for want of assistance. To what reproaches would you not subject yourself in the country around! Come, allow yourself to be moved by the prayer of this poor child.” “Monsieur le curé,” replied the miller, taking off his cap, “if they were Christians, I wouldn’t refuse; but pagans—I can’t stand that!”