ce glanced the river Gave, fighting its rock-riven way to the
sea. The prospect, growing continually more grand as it receded, was
finally hedged about by the majestic Pyrenees, which lifted their
glimmering snows against the pale winter sky.

But Madame Soubirons was familiar with these scenes, and had no eyes
for them. She sat leaning her cheek upon her hand, and as she glanced
down the crooked walk she murmured, "They have had time to get back,
if they hurried as I charged them." Presently a cheery whistle rang
out upon the air, and looking up she saw a man in miller's dress
approaching. It was Jean Soubirons, her husband, coming home to
dinner. She waited until he arrived, and they then went into the
house together.

"Can you eat a cold dinner to-day, Jean?" she asked. "I have only
bread and milk to give you."

"Yes, with thanks, Louise," he replied; "but where are Bernadette and
Marie?"

"They went with Jeanne Abadie to gather fagots, but they should have
been back long since. You might then have had a warm dinner."

"All is well if they come to no harm, but it is somewhat chilly for
our Bernadette."

"I gave her a pair of stockings to wear. She can't go like Marie, poor
child! who can hardly endure her sabots, even in winter. But I do not
see what detains them."

They sat down and ate in silence, the two vacant places seeming to
fill them with a feeling of desolation.

"I am sorry," said Jean Soubirons as he rose from the table, "that
I am so poor a man that my little girls must bring the wood for the
pot."

"Perhaps we shall be richer some day, Jean," said Louise, as if she
had hope.

"Perhaps so--in heaven," said he sadly, "where there are no poor;" and
he went back to his work.

Meantime the three girls had been wandering. Of the two sisters, Marie
was rosy and strong, but Bernadette pale and delicate, being afflicted
with asthma. Bernadette appeared to be only ten years old, but was
fourteen. Previous to this time almost all her life had been passed
away from home, she having lived at Bastres with a friend of her
mother, where she had been provided with a home for the small sum of
five francs a month and her service in tending the sheep: she was not
strong enough for more laborious work. Here Bernadette lived a calm
and uneventful life, her duties causing her to be much in solitude,
which she whiled away in petting her lambs. Very often the time had
been set when she was to return home, but it