rners. And the wood has taken on a golden gleam like the memory of a
sunset.

"What of that, my friend?" says Madame, pointing to the cabinet. And
the old cure bows his head.

"It may be so. God is very good," he says gently. But he is never
quite sure what he may believe.

On that winter day long ago, Hyacinthe was quite sure of one thing and
that was that the workshop was very cold. There was no fire in it, and
only one little lamp when the early dark drew on. The tools were so
cold they scorched his fingers, and feet were so cold he danced
clumsily in the shavings to warm them. He was a great clumsy boy of
fourteen, dark-faced, dull-eyed, and uncared for. He was clumsy
because it is impossible to be graceful when you are growing very fast
and have not enough to eat. He was dull-eyed because all eyes met his
unlovingly. He was uncared for because no one knew the beauty of his
soul. But his heavy young hands could carve things like birds and
flowers perfectly. On this winter evening he was just wondering if he
might lay aside the tools, and creep home to the cold loft where he
slept, when he heard Pierre L'Oreillard's voice shouting outside.

"Be quick, be quick, and open the door, thou _imbecile_. It is I, thy
master."

"_Oui, mon maitre_," said Hyacinthe, and he shambled to the door and
opened it.

"Slow worm!" cried Pierre, and he cuffed Hyacinthe as he passed in.
Hyacinthe rubbed his head and said nothing. He was used to blows. He
wondered why his master was in the workshop at that time of day
instead of drinking brandy at the Cinq Chateaux.

Pierre L'Oreillard had a small heavy bundle under his arm, wrapped in
sacking, and then in burlap, and then in fine soft cloths. He laid it
on a pile of shavings, and unfolded it carefully; and a dim sweetness
filled the dark shed and hung heavily in the thin winter sunbeams.

"It is a piece of wood," said Hyacinthe in slow surprise. He knew that
such wood had never been seen in Terminaison.

Pierre L'Oreillard rubbed the wood respectfully with his knobby
fingers.

"It is sandalwood," he explained to Hyacinthe, pride of knowledge
making him quite amiable, "a most precious wood that grows in warm
countries, thou great goblin. Smell it, idiot. It is sweeter than
cedar. It is to make a cabinet for the old Madame at the big house."

"_Oui, mon maitre_," said the dull Hyacinthe.

"Thy great hands shall shape and smooth the wood, _nigaud_, and I
will render it beauti