ncerned their own property. I then saw
how much the countess was beloved. I spoke of it to a poor laborer, who,
with one foot on his spade and an elbow on its handle, stood listening
to the two doctors of pomology.

"Ah, yes, monsieur," he answered, "she is a good woman, and not haughty
like those hussies at Azay, who would see us die like dogs sooner than
yield us one penny of the price of a grave! The day when that woman
leaves these parts the Blessed Virgin will weep, and we too. She knows
what is due to her, but she knows our hardships, too, and she puts them
into the account."

With what pleasure I gave that man all the money I had.

A few days later a pony arrived for Jacques, his father, an excellent
horseman, wishing to accustom the child by degrees to the fatigues
of such exercise. The boy had a pretty riding-dress, bought with
the product of the nuts. The morning when he took his first lesson
accompanied by his father and by Madeleine, who jumped and shouted about
the lawn round which Jacques was riding, was a great maternal festival
for the countess. The boy wore a blue collar embroidered by her, a
little sky-blue overcoat fastened by a polished leather belt, a pair of
white trousers pleated at the waist, and a Scotch cap, from which his
fair hair flowed in heavy locks. He was charming to behold. All the
servants clustered round to share the domestic joy. The little heir
smiled at his mother as he passed her, sitting erect, and quite
fearless. This first manly act of a child to whom death had often seemed
so near, the promise of a sound future warranted by this ride which
showed him so handsome, so fresh, so rosy,--what a reward for all her
cares! Then too the joy of the father, who seemed to renew his youth,
and who smiled for the first time in many long months; the pleasure
shown on all faces, the shout of an old huntsman of the Lenoncourts, who
had just arrived from Tours, and who, seeing how the boy held the reins,
shouted to him, "Bravo, monsieur le vicomte!"--all this was too much for
the poor mother, and she burst into tears; she, so calm in her griefs,
was too weak to bear the joy of admiring her boy as he bounded over the
gravel, where so often she had led him in the sunshine inwardly weeping
his expected death. She leaned upon my arm unreservedly, and said: "I
think I have never suffered. Do not leave us to-day."

The lesson over, Jacques jumped into his mother's arms; she caught
him and held hi