e
box of luncheon under his arm, set out upon the train for the
Pont-de-Saint-Michel silk mills. To be going on such a long journey all
alone was a novel undertaking for the lad, who seldom left his own green
valley. It was almost as wonderful as if he were starting for
Marseilles, or indeed Paris itself. The place where he was going did
not, however, possess the glamour of either of these great cities. On
the contrary it was merely a sort of depot or centre to which all the
cocoons bought up in the vicinity were sent to have the silk reeled
from them; there were also at this plant some extensive throwing mills,
but no weaving was done there. Instead the thrown silk was sold to the
great weaving factories at Lyons, Tours, or other silk-making cities of
France; and the raw product was sent to Marseilles, from which market it
was either distributed to French mills or shipped to England or the
United States for manufacture.

The day was a beautiful one. Massive white clouds hung low over the
distant mountains; but the valley was flooded with golden sunshine that
illumined it like some vast search-light. The vineyards never looked
greener, the hillsides more velvety and cool, or the river more
sparkling. Now the train skirted the banks of the stream, now shot past
meadows of fertile farming land; or of a sudden it crossed a noisy
mountain torrent and crept up the hillside until the vegetation became
low and stunted, and the rocky peaks of the Pyrenees seemed but an arm's
length away. Then slowly down over a trestle of airily poised
bridge-work it descended to the valley again. Was ever a journey such a
marvel? To the French boy who had seen little of the outside world it
was an Arabian Night's dream.

All too soon Saint Michel was reached, and Pierre set out for the silk
mills, where he presented the card that Monsieur Leclerq had given him.
Then for a few minutes he waited in a small office where the jar of
machinery and the whirr of wheels caused a monotonous and unceasing
vibration.

Presently a giant foreman with sleeves rolled to the elbow came hurrying
out.

He regarded Pierre with surprise.

"They told me that one of our silk-growers wanted to see me," faltered
he uncertainly. "There has doubtless been some mistake. You are but a
boy."

"I am nevertheless a silk-grower," smiled Pierre modestly. "It is
because the men of our household are in the trenches that I----"

Impulsively the foreman thrust out his ha