r forehead was so white and so
pure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade.
Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning air
and, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, more
than all, a small secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood,
caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom in
the first beams of an April sun.

Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only the
soft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove's; her home-made cloth
gown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked already
perfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was but
seventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasant
women were so foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance and
decency to the breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly,
but there is no longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purity
of long ago, which made them look like Holbein's virgins. They are more
forward and more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom used
to be a kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper and
more ideal.

During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the
"thirteen"--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his bride's
hand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchanged
for centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the golden
wedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:

"Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for,
Germain?"

"Yes," answered he, "my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died.
There is but one ring for both my weddings."

"Thank you, Germain," said the young woman, in a serious and impressive
tone. "I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep it
for the marriage of your little Solange."

IV -- The Cabbage

THEY mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast was
bountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted until
midnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the table. The
grave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He was celebrated
for this, and he would leave his fire to come in and dance and sing
before and after every course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps was
epileptic. Who would have thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merry
as a young man. One d