as he watched Louison.

"Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the
flowers kep' coming."

"Why did he wish it so?" Isidore mused a while.

"Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor--ah, yes, sublime!"
he said.

Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P'tite Louison
was picking berries. His hat was still off.

"Let me help you, Mademoiselle," he said softly. And henceforth he was
as foolish as her brothers.

THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR

"Sacre bapteme!"

"What did he say?" asked the Little Chemist, stepping from his doorway.

"He cursed his baptism," answered tall Medallion, the English
auctioneer, pushing his way farther into the crowd.

"Ah, the pitiful vaurien!" said the Little Chemist's wife, shudderingly;
for that was an oath not to be endured by any one who called the Church
mother.

The crowd that had gathered at the Four Corners were greatly disturbed,
for they also felt the repulsion that possessed the Little Chemist's
wife. They babbled, shook their heads, and waved their hands excitedly,
and swayed and craned their necks to see the offender.

All at once his voice, mad with rage, was heard above the rest, shouting
frenziedly a curse which was a horribly grotesque blasphemy upon the
name of God. Men who had used that oath in their insane anger had been
known to commit suicide out of remorse afterwards.

For a moment there was a painful hush. The crowd drew back involuntarily
and left a clear space, in which stood the blasphemer--a middle-sized,
athletic fellow, with black beard, thick, waving hair, and flashing
brown eyes. His white teeth were showing now in a snarl like a dog's,
his cap was on the ground, his hair was tumbled, his hands were
twitching with passion, his foot was stamping with fury, and every time
it struck the ground a little silver bell rang at his knee--a pretty
sylvan sound, in no keeping with the scene. It heightened the distress
of the fellow's blasphemy and ungovernable anger. For a man to curse
his baptism was a wicked thing; but the other oath was not fit for human
ears, and horror held the crowd moveless for a moment.

Then, as suddenly as the stillness came, a low, threatening mumble
of voices rose, and a movement to close in on the man was made; but
a figure pushed through the crowd, and, standing in front of the man,
waved the people back. It was the Cure, the beloved M. Fabre, whose life
had been spent among