ames of the girls in the village. Medallion
objected to those for whom he wished a better future, but they decided
at last on Julie Lachance, who, Medallion thought, would in time
profoundly increase Farette's respect for the memory of his first wife;
for Julie was not an angel. Then the details were ponderously thought
out by the miller, and ponderously acted upon, with the dry approval of
Medallion, who dared not tell the Cure of his complicity, though he was
without compunction. He had a sense of humour, and knew there could be
no tragedy in the thing--for Julie. But the miller was a careful man and
original in his methods. He still possessed the wardrobe of the first
wife, thoughtfully preserved by his sister, even to the wonderful grey
watered-poplin which had been her wedding-dress. These he had taken out,
shaken free of cayenne, camphor, and lavender, and sent upon the back of
Parpon, the dwarf, to the house where Julie lodged (she was an orphan),
following himself with a statement on brown paper, showing the extent of
his wealth, and a parcel of very fine flour from the new stones in his
mill. All was spread out, and then he made a speech, describing his
virtues, and condoning his one offence of age by assuring her that
every tooth in his head was sound. This was merely the concession of
politeness, for he thought his offer handsome.

Julie slyly eyed the wardrobe and as slyly smiled, and then, imitating
Farette's manner--though Farette could not see it, and Parpon spluttered
with laughter--said:

"M'sieu', you are a great man. The grey poplin is noble, also the flour,
and the writing on the brown paper. M'sieu', you go to Mass, and all
your teeth are sound; you have a dog-churn, also three feather-beds, and
five rag carpets; you have sat on the grand jury.

"M'sieu', I have a dot; I accept you. M'sieu', I will keep the brown
paper, and the grey poplin, and the flour." Then with a grave elaborate
bow, "M'sieu'!"

That was the beginning and end of the courtship. For though Farette came
every Sunday evening and smoked by the fire, and looked at Julie as she
arranged the details of her dowry, he only chuckled, and now and again
struck his thigh and said:

"Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!"

Then he would fall to thinking and chuckling again. One day he asked her
to make him some potato-cakes of the flour he had given her. Her
answer was a catastrophe. She could not cook; she was eve