At the head of the procession marched Jean François, the farmer, leading two of his little children by the hand; his wife held the smallest child in her arms. At the sight of Madame Bastien, the farmer approached. "Good day, Jean François," said the young woman to him, affectionately. "What do these good people who accompany you want?" "We wish to speak to M. Frederick, madame." Marie turned to Marguerite, who, with a triumphant air, was standing behind her mistress, and said to her: "Run and tell my son, Marguerite." "It will not take long, madame; he is in the library with M. David." While the servant went in quest of Frederick, Marie, who saw then for the first time the handsomely equipped carriage standing before the garden gate, wondered what could be its purpose. Frederick hastened, not expecting the spectacle which awaited him. "What do you want, mother?" said he, quickly. Then, seeing the crowd which had gathered in the little garden, he stopped suddenly, with an interrogative look at his mother. "My child--" But the young woman, whose heart was beating with joy, could say no more; overcome by emotion, she had just discovered that the assemblage was composed entirely of those unfortunate people whom she and her son and David had helped in the time of the overflow. Then Marie said: "My child, it is Jean François who wishes to speak to you,--there he is!" And the happy mother withdrew behind her son, exchanging a glance of inexpressible delight with David, who had followed his pupil, and stood half hidden under the porch. Frederick, whose astonishment continued to increase, made a step toward Jean François, who said to the young man, in a voice full of tears: "M. Frederick, it is we poor valley people, who have come to thank you with a free heart, as well as your mother and your friend, M. David, who have been so kind. As I owe you the most," continued the farmer, with a voice more and more broken by tears, and pointing to his wife and children with an expressive gesture, "as I owe you the most, M. Frederick, the others have told me--and--I--" The poor man could say no more. Sobs stifled his voice. Other sobs of tenderness from the excited crowd responded to the tears of Jean François, and broke the almost religious silence which reigned for several minutes. Frederick's heart was melted to tears of joy. He threw himself upon his mother's neck, as if he wished to turn toward her these testimonials of gratitude by which he was so profoundly touched. At a sign from Jean François, who had dried his eyes and tried to regain his self-possession, several men of the assemblage approached the cart, and, taking the ferry-boat, brought it in their arms and laid it before Frederick. It was a simple and rustic little boat with two oars of unpolished wood, and on the inner railing were written in rude and uneven letters, cut into the framework, the words: "The poor people of the valley to M. Frederick Bastien."