called "Gilliatt" was,
possibly, one of these human strays.

The woman grew older; the child became a youth. They lived alone and
avoided by all; but they were sufficient for each other. _Louve et
louveteau se pourlechent._ This was another of the generous proverbs
which the neighbourhood applied to them. Meanwhile, the youth grew to
manhood; and then, as the old and withered bark falls from the tree,
the mother died. She left to her son the little field of Sergentee, the
small property called La Roque Crespel, and the house known as the Bu de
la Rue; with the addition, as the official inventory said, of "one
hundred guineas in gold in the _pid d'une cauche_," that is to say, in
the foot of a stocking. The house was already sufficiently furnished
with two oaken chests, two beds, six chairs and a table, besides
necessary household utensils. Upon a shelf were some books, and in the
corner a trunk, by no means of a mysterious character, which had to be
opened for the inventory. This trunk was of drab leather, ornamented
with brass nails and little stars of white metal, and it contained a
bride's outfit, new and complete, of beautiful Dunkirk linen--chemises
and petticoats, and some silk dresses--with a paper on which was
written, in the handwriting of the deceased,--

"For your wife: when you marry."

The loss of his mother was a terrible blow for the young man. His
disposition had always been unsociable; he became now moody and sullen.
The solitude around him was complete. Hitherto it had been mere
isolation; now his life was a blank. While we have only one companion,
life is endurable; left alone, it seems as if it is impossible to
struggle on, and we fall back in the race, which is the first sign of
despair. As time rolls on, however, we discover that duty is a series of
compromises; we contemplate life, regard its end, and submit; but it is
a submission which makes the heart bleed.

Gilliatt was young; and his wound healed with time. At that age sorrows
cannot be lasting. His sadness, disappearing by slow degrees, seemed to
mingle itself with the scenes around him, to draw him more and more
towards the face of nature, and further and further from the need of
social converse; and, finally, to assimilate his spirit more completely
to the solitude in which he lived.

IV

AN UNPOPULAR MAN

Gilliatt, as we have said, was not popular in the parish. Nothing could
be more natural than that antipathy among his