ely lifted his eyes from the floor. He knew she would think
him ill-bred, he was ashamed of himself, but he could not help it.
He was full of bashfulness. Now, bashfulness is almost always a sure
sign of _amour-propre_.

He scolded himself, but his red face grew redder. It was soon of a
colour resembling peacock-blue.

Noticing his discomposure, Miss Rougeant could not help sharing some
of it, and, doubtless, things would soon have come to an awkward
point for both, if Mr. Rougeant had not put in an appearance.

"So this is the gentleman who saved your life?" said his daughter,
speaking in English.

In the same language Mr. Rougeant replied: "Yes, this is he."

She had now regained all her former ease, and knowing her father's
manners, thanked Frank most cordially.

He stammered out a few words of acknowledgement.

Seeing that her visitor cast glances at the quaint furniture, and
anxious to break the confusing silence, Adele went on: "Doubtless
you had not seen a kitchen like this before Mr. ----."

"My name is Frank Mathers," interposed the young man.

"And mine is Adele Rougeant," said she.

"Fancy, putting you in such a kitchen. We must go into the parlour
directly."

"This is indeed very quaint and certainly primitive furniture. I
must explain the use of----, that is if----."

"I should be greatly obliged," said Frank, "but it really is giving
yourself too much trouble."

"On the contrary, it gives me pleasure. This"--pointing to a low
kind of bedstead--"was the sofa of our forefathers. We call it a
_jonquiere_. It was formerly stuffed with a weed which still grows
near the coast; called jonquier--hence its name. These rods were
used to hang the _craseaux_ on them. A _crase_, the singular of
_craseaux_, is a lamp of the most primitive type."

"A vessel with a beak in which some oil is poured, and in the beak
is placed a wick, while underneath the vessel another one is
suspended as a receptacle for the oil which falls from the upper
one. Only ten years ago we still used them. I remember it quite
well."

"And these are what we call '_lattes_,'" she said, pointing to a
wooden rack which hung suspended from the ceiling and parallel to
it. "As you see, the bacon is kept there."

She stopped here, and looked anxiously at her father. He was pale
and trembling. "Are you ill, father?" questioned his daughter.

"No, I'm not ill, although I do not feel quite well. Make me a
_totaie_," he said, "then I'll