mother; she's no more like me than a goldfinch is like a sparrow; but as I brought her up, I have always kept the habit of calling her my girl: she would never let me stop calling her _thou_. She's such a sweet child! I am sorry she's in bed, but you will see her to-morrow; for you won't go away without breakfast, you won't be let go, and she'll help me to serve you a little better than I can do alone. It's not courage that I lack, however, monsieur, for I have a good pair of legs; I have always been thin, as you see me, with my short body, and you would never think me as old as I am. Come! how old would you call me?" The young man thought that, thanks to this question, he would be able to put in a word at last, to thank her and to guide her, for he was very desirous of fuller details concerning Mademoiselle Gilberte; but the good woman did not await his reply, but continued volubly: "I am sixty-four years old, monsieur, that is to say, I shall be on Saint-Jean's day, and I do more work alone than three young hussies could ever do. My blood runs quick, you see, monsieur. I am not from Berry, I was born in Marche, more than half a league from here; so you can understand it. Ah! you are looking at our child's work? Do you know that is spun as even and fine as the best spinner in the province can do it? She wanted me to teach her to spin. 'Look you, mother,' she said, for she always calls me that; she never knew her own mother and always loved me as if I was, although we were about as much alike as a rose and a nettle; 'look you, mother,' she said, 'all that embroidery and drawing and nonsense they taught me at the convent will never do me any good here. Teach me to spin and knit and sew, so that I can help you make father's clothes.'" Just as the good woman's indefatigable monologue was beginning to be interesting to her weary auditor, she left the room, as she had already done several times; for she did not remain quiet a moment, and, while talking, had covered the table with a coarse white cloth, laid plates, glasses and knives; had swept the hearth, wiped the chairs and rekindled the fire ten times, always resuming her soliloquy at the point where she had let it drop. But this time her voice, which began to lisp in the passageway outside the door, was drowned by other stronger voices, and the Comte de Châteaubrun and the peasant who had guided our traveller at last appeared before him, each carrying two large earthenware jugs which they placed on the table. Not until then had the young man had an opportunity to see their faces distinctly.