A man who, to judge from his dusty boots, had been walking quite a considerable distance, was sitting upon a wooden bench, carelessly holding his feet toward a woman who was on her knees before him busily unlacing his boots. The man was frowning, the woman smiling. "Haven't you finished yet, Bertrande?" said he, crossly. "You are so clumsy and slow that you almost drive me out of my wits." "There, it's all done, Martin," said the woman, softly. "There, it's all done, is it?" growled the pretended Martin. "Now where are my other boots? I'll wager that you didn't even think to bring them to me, you fool. So I shall have to go barefoot until you fetch them." Bertrande disappeared within the house, and in less than a second returned with another pair of boots, which she hastened with her own hands to draw on her lord and master's feet. Doubtless these individuals have been recognized as Arnauld du Thill, still masquerading under the name of Martin-Guerre, and now as always domineering and brutal, and Bertrande de Rolles, infinitely softened and brought to her senses by bitter experience. "Where is my glass of beer?" asked Martin, in the same surly tone. "It is all ready, dear," said Bertrande, timidly, "and I am just going to get it for you." "I always have to wait," said the other, stamping with impatience. "Come, be quick about it, or I'll--" An expressive gesture completed his sentence. Bertrande went and came again with the swiftness of light. Martin took from her hands a brimming glass of beer, which he swallowed in one draught with evident satisfaction. "That's good," he condescended to say as he handed the empty glass to his wife. "My poor love, are you warm?" she ventured to ask, wiping her rough-spoken spouse's forehead with her handkerchief. "Here, put on your hat, for fear of the draught. You are very tired, aren't you?" "What!" growled Martin; "don't I have to fall in with the customs of this idiotic neighborhood, and on every anniversary of our wedding go round among all the villages hereabout to ask a pack of accursed relatives to dinner? Upon my word, I had forgotten this absurd custom, if you had not reminded me of it yesterday, Bertrande! However, I have made the rounds, and in two hours the whole tribe of hungry kinsfolk will be upon us." "Thanks, dear," said Bertrande. "You are quite right; it is an absurd custom, but a peremptory one, to which we must submit, if we would not be looked upon as arrogant and scornful." "Well reasoned," replied Martin, ironically. "And have you done your part, sluggard? Is the table laid in the orchard?" "Yes, Martin, as you ordered." "Have you been to invite the judge also?" asked the affectionate spouse. "Yes, Martin; and he said that he would do his best to be present at the feast."