r a single name--and that name will be your country!'

"I was trembling with emotion, and great tears were in my eyes.

"'Ah! I understand,' cried I; 'it is our home in large; it is that part
of the world where God has placed our body and our soul.'

"'You are right, Jerome,' continued the old soldier; 'so you comprehend
also what we owe it.'

"'Truly,' resumed I, 'we owe it all that we are; it is a question of
love.'

"'And of honesty, my son,' concluded he. 'The member of a family who
does not contribute his share of work and of happiness fails in his
duty, and is a bad kinsman; the member of a partnership who does not
enrich it with all his might, with all his courage, and with all his
heart, defrauds it of what belongs to it, and is a dishonest man. It
is the same with him who enjoys the advantages of having a country, and
does not accept the burdens of it; he forfeits his honor, and is a bad
citizen!'

"'And what must one do, lieutenant, to be a good citizen?' asked I.

"'Do for your country what you would do for your father and mother,'
said he.

"I did not answer at the moment; my heart was swelling, and the blood
boiling in my veins; but on returning along the road, my uncle's words
were, so to speak, written up before my eyes. I repeated, 'Do for your
country what you would do for your father and mother.' And my country is
in danger; an enemy attacks it, while I--I turn cups and balls!

"This thought tormented me so much all night that the next day I
returned to Vincennes to announce to the lieutenant that I had just
enlisted, and was going off to the frontier. The brave man pressed upon
me his cross of St. Louis, and I went away as proud as an ambassador.

"That is how, neighbor, I became a volunteer under the Republic before I
had cut my wisdom teeth."

All this was told quietly, and in the cheerful spirit of him who looks
upon an accomplished duty neither as a merit nor a grievance.

While he spoke, Father Chaufour grew animated, not on account of
himself, but of the general subject. Evidently that which occupied him
in the drama of life was not his own part, but the drama itself.

This sort of disinterestedness touched me. I prolonged my visit, and
showed myself as frank as possible, in order to win his confidence in
return. In an hour's time he knew my position and my habits; I was on
the footing of an old acquaintance.

I even confessed the ill-humor the light of his lamp put me into a sho