cupboard, brought back a bone well covered with
meat, and gave it to the dog, which snatched it and began gnawing it,
now and again stopping to look up at his master, as one might look at
a mountain moving, be aware of something singular, yet not grasp the
significance of the phenomenon. At last, worn out, Pomfrette threw
himself on his bed, and fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke, it was
far into the morning. He lighted a fire in the kitchen, got a "spider,"
fried himself a piece of pork, and made some tea. There was no milk in
the cupboard; so he took a pitcher and walked down the road a few rods
to the next house, where lived the village milkman. He knocked, and the
door was opened by the milkman's wife. A frightened look came upon her
when she saw who it was.

"Non, non!" she said, and shut the door in his face. He stared blankly
at the door for a moment, then turned round and stood looking down
into the road, with the pitcher in his hand. The milkman's little boy,
Maxime, came running round the corner of the house. "Maxime," he said
involuntarily and half-eagerly, for he and the lad had been great
friends.

Maxime's face brightened, then became clouded; he stood still an
instant, and presently, turning round and looking at Pomfrette askance,
ran away behind the house, saying: "Non, non!"

Pomfrette drew his rough knuckles across his forehead in a dazed way;
then, as the significance of the thing came home to him, he broke out
with a fierce oath, and strode away down the yard and into the road.
On the way to his house he met Duclosse the mealman and Garotte the
lime-burner. He wondered what they would do. He could see the fat,
wheezy Duclosse hesitate, but the arid, alert Garotte had determination
in every motion and look. They came nearer; they were about to pass;
there was no sign.

Pomfrette stopped short. "Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse," he
said, looking straight at them.

Garotte made no reply, but walked straight on. Pomfrette stepped swiftly
in front of the mealman. There was fury in his face-fury and danger; his
hair was disordered, his eyes afire.

"Good-day, mealman," he said, and waited. "Duclosse," called Garotte
warningly, "remember!" Duclosse's knees shook, and his face became
mottled like a piece of soap; he pushed his fingers into his shirt and
touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there. That and Garotte's words
gave him courage. He scarcely knew what he said, but it had meani