We have cows and chickens, and that reminds me
the poultry has not yet been fed. Lie down, dear, and rest a while. I
will wake you at dinner-time, but first drink this soup. It is good, is
it not? And to think that while I was calmly sleeping, you were alone
in the cold and dark night. I must go. My chickens are calling me;" and
with a loving kiss Ida went off on tiptoe, happy and bright, browned
somewhat by the sun, and dressed with rather a theatrical idea of the
proprieties. Her country costume had a great deal of black velvet about
it, and she wore a wide-brimmed Leghorn hat, trimmed with poppies and
wheat.

Jack could not sleep, but his bath and the soup prepared by Mere
Archambauld, his mother's cook, had restored his strength to a very
great degree, and he lay on the couch, looking about him with calm,
satisfied eyes.

There was but little of the old luxury. The room he was in was large,
furnished in the style of Louis XVI., all gray and white, without the
least gilding. Outside, the rustling of the leaves, the cooing of the
pigeons on the roof, and his mother's voice talking to her chickens,
lulled him to repose.

One thing troubled him: D'Argenton's portrait hung at the foot of the
bed, in a pretentious attitude, his hand on an open book.

The child said to himself, "Where is he? Why have I not seen
him?" Finally, annoyed by the eyes of the picture, which seemed to pursue
him either with a question or a reproach, he rose and went down to his
mother.

She was busy in the farm-yard; her gloves reached above her elbows, and
her dress, looped on one side, showed her wide striped skirt and high
heels.

Mere Archambauld laughed at her awkwardness. This woman was the wife
of an employe in the government forests, who attended to the culinary
department at Aulnettes, as the house was called where Jack's mother
lived.

"Heavens! how pretty your boy is!" said the old woman, delighted by
Jack's appearance.

"Is he not, Mere Archambauld? What did I tell you?"

"But he looks a good deal more like you, madame, than like his papa.
Good day, my dear! May I give you a kiss?"

At the word papa, Jack looked up quickly.

"Ah, well! if you can't sleep, let us go and look at the house," said
his mother, who quickly wearied of every occupation. She shook down
her skirts, and took the child over this most original house, which was
situated a stone's throw from the village, and realized better than
most poets' dreams th