had risen to meet the new conditions of
living!

"We who remain at home must keep things running in the customary
grooves, so that our soldiers may find the town unchanged when they
return," had been the cry.

And so these noble-hearted mothers and children had toiled
uncomplainingly at garden, vineyard, and loom; had tended flocks of
goats and cattle; and had harvested the hay and grain. For Bellerivre,
walled in between the river Eisen and the snowy capped Pyrenees, was a
fertile valley on which, in spite of the tragedy of national warfare,
the sun seemed ever to shine. It was a mere dot of a place, with a
vine-covered chapel, a low white convent tucked away among the hills,
and a scattering of houses. In the centre of the town stood La Maison de
Sainte Genevieve, the home of Monsieur le Cure, the much loved parish
priest, who although bent and white-haired was the friend, counselor,
and teacher of both young and old. The little schoolhouse where he had
been accustomed to meet the children was, however, now closed; for in
these troublous war days boys and girls had far more important duties to
perform than to learn lessons. There were the great vineyards that
striped the hills--these must not perish for want of care; then there
were the gardens and hay-fields.

But none of these things, vital as they appeared, were of first
importance in the community. It was from quite a different source that
the peasants of Bellerivre derived their livelihood--a source peculiar
if one was unfamiliar with it, but which had been the primary interest
of the valley ever since its people could remember. They raised
silkworms!

Not only did the father of Marie and Pierre earn his living thus, but so
also did most of the other fathers in that green valley. As long ago as
the boy and girl had been old enough to walk they had toddled out into
the sunshine and helped gather mulberry leaves; and they had not been
much older than this before they had learned exactly what kind of leaves
the tiny spinners liked best to eat. The precious grove of white
mulberry trees had been planted years before by M. Bretton, and had been
cherished with greatest care ever since. Each season new trees had been
added and so spaced that their roots might have room to spread. Around
each tree a trench was dug to hold the moisture. Some of the trees had
been raised from seed and transplanted into the mulberry grove when they
were three years old; others had bee