Jeanne-Marie drew in her breath at the words “old ones.” “But the book says I am only thirty-four!” she told herself; and that night she looked in the old Mass-book, to be sure if it could be true; and there was the date set down very clearly, in the handwriting of Dubois, her father’s oldest friend; for Jeanne-Marie’s father himself could neither read nor write--he was, as he said with pride, of the old school, “that kissed our sweethearts, and found that better than writing them long scribbles on white paper, as the young ones do now; and thought a chat with a friend on Sundays and holidays worth more than sitting cramped up, reading the murders and the adulteries in the newspapers.” So it was Dubois who wrote down the children’s births in the old Mass book. Yes, there they were. Catherine first of all; poor Catherine, who was so bright and pretty, and died that rainy winter when she was just twelve years old. Then “Jeanne-Marie, née le 28 Novembre 1854, à minuit,” and added, in the same handwriting, “On nous raconte qu’à cette heure-la nous étions en train de gagner une grande bataille en Russie! Que ça lui porte bonheur!” Eight years later: “Jacques Firman, né le 12 Février à midi.” It all came back to Jeanne-Marie as she read; that scene of his birth, when she was just eight years old. She was sitting alone in the kitchen, crying, for they had told her her mother was very ill, and had been ill all the night, and just as the big clock was striking twelve she heard the voice of the neighbour who had spent the night there, calling to her: “Jeanne-Marie, viens vite, ta mère veut te voir”; and she had gone, timid and hesitating, into the darkened room. The first thing she noticed was the large fire blazing on the open hearth--she had never known her father and mother have a fire before--and she wondered much whether it was being too cold that had made her mother ill, as it had little Catherine. She looked towards the bed and saw her mother lying there, her eyes closed, and very pale--so pale that Jeanne-Marie was frightened and ran towards her father; but he was smiling where he stood by the bed, and the child was reassured. She saw him stoop and kiss his wife on the forehead, and call her his “bonne petite femme,” and taking Jeanne-Marie by the hand he showed her the _sage-femme_--the _sage-femme_ who had come the night before to make her mother well--sitting near the fire with a white bundle in her arms, and thanked the good God aloud that he had sent him a fine boy at last. Old Dubois had come in gently, his béret in his hand, as Jeanne-Marie’s father was speaking, and turning to the bed had reiterated emphatically, “Tu as bien fait, chère dame, tu as bien fait.”