Friendly and familiar, Mr. Roquevillard called each worker by name, addressing some of them even with affection, for the oldest of them he had always known by sight, and the younger he had been acquainted with from childhood. To the wages of their day’s work he added a pleasant word in every case, and each acknowledged it in turn with a “Thank you, Squire.” One or two of them who had seemed a little lazy during the day got a bit of blame, pronounced in a pleasant tone, but showing, nevertheless, that the master kept his two eyes open. Even the children, who had paid themselves with fruit as they played, got a few coppers from Squire Roquevillard, who loved them. “Those that have received their pay pass to the left,” he said, in the midst of the proceedings. “I don’t want to begin again indefinitely.” “It wouldn’t be a bad idea, though,” rejoined a fine-looking young woman of eighteen or twenty years. She wore no kerchief on her head, as if to face the daylight the more openly with her youth. Her hair, a little disarranged, fell forward. Her mouth was large and her expression rather common, but she had a look of health, bright eyes, and in especial a golden tint, as of full white grapes that are reddened by warmth till they seem full of the elixir of the sun. Mr. Roquevillard stared at her. “How fast you’ve grown, Catherine!” he said. “When are they going to marry you off?” She reddened with pleasure at this public notice that was taken of her. “Wait and see!” “Well, well! You’re not bad looking, Catherine.” And with the money that he handed her he joined a bit of counsel, putting it quite seriously: “Be good, little girl. Virtue’s worth more than beauty.” She promised it unhesitatingly: “Yes, Squire.” As the end of the line was reached the master inspected his troop and demanded: “Is every one satisfied?” Twenty happy voices replied, thanking him. But one of the children pointed with his finger to an old woman who stood apart, embarrassed and discomfited. “Mother Fauchois.” The child’s words passed unheeded, and no one interfered, as if the old woman deserved no salutations. “Well, now, good evening, all of you,” responded the ringing voice of Mr. Roquevillard. “You’ll reach Saint Cassin and Vimines all right before dark.” “Good-bye, Squire.” Standing quiet at his post of observation he saw the shadows of the workers, dark against the sunset, grow smaller and then disappear. Their voices rose to him from below. They separated into two groups, those from Vimines and Saint Cassin, respectively. These latter, whose path lay to the left, began to sing: a rustic chorus with a long-drawn close. Already the sun just touched the mountains. At the master’s side old Fauchois never stirred, claiming nothing. “Pierrette,” said Mr. Roquevillard abruptly. She thrust her head forward, showing features not so much old as sorrowful and broken. “Yes, Master Francis,” she murmured.