led from its bosom.

One autumn when the hillsides were in those colours which none but a
rainbow of the moon ever had, so delicately sad, so tenderly assuring,
a traveller came back to St. Saviour's after a long journey. He came by
boat to the landing at the Manor Cartier, rather than by train to
the railway-station, from which there was a drive of several miles to
Vilray. At the landing he was met by a woman, as much a miniature of the
days of Orleanist France as himself. She wore lace mits which covered
the hands but not the fingers, and her gown showed the outline of a meek
crinoline.

"Ah, Fille--ah, dear Fille!" said the little fragment of an antique day,
as the Clerk of the Court--rather, he that had been for so many years
Clerk of the Court--stepped from the boat. "I can scarce believe that
you are here once more. Have you good news?"

"It was to come back with good news that I went," her brother answered
smiling, his face lighted by an inner exaltation.

"Dear, dear Fille!" She always called him that now, and not by his
Christian name, as though he was a peer. She had done so ever since the
Government had made him a magistrate, and Laval University had honoured
him with the degree of doctor of laws.

She was leading him to the pony-carriage in which she had come to meet
him, when he said:

"Do you think you could walk the distance, my dear?... It would be like
old times," he added gently.

"I could walk twice as far to-day," she answered, and at once gave
directions for the young coachman to put "His Honour's" bag into the
carriage. In spite of Fille's reproofs she insisted in calling him that
to the servants. They had two servants now, thanks to the legacy left
them by the late Judge Carcasson. Presently M. Fille took her by the
hand. "Before we start--one look yonder," he murmured, pointing towards
the mill which had once belonged to Jean Jacques, now rebuilt and
looking almost as of old. "I promised Jean Jacques that I would come and
salute it in his name, before I did aught else, and so now I do salute
it."

He waved a hand and made a bow to the gold Cock of Beaugard, the pride
of all the vanished Barbilles. "Jean Jacques Barbille says that his
head is up like yours, M. le Coq, and he wishes you many, many winds to
come," he recited quite seriously, and as though it was not out of tune
with the modern world.

The gold Cock of Beaugard seemed to understand, for it swung to the
left, and now a lit