nother. I am not sure if I make myself clear, my
child; it was a singular feeling. But when I would spring forward with
him, and toss my head and wave my hands as he did,--as my mother Marie
did,--there was something held me back; it was the other nature in me,
slow and silent, and--no! not cold, but loath to show its warmth, if I
may put it so. My father in me kept me silent many a time when I might
have spoken foolishness. And it was this half, my father's half, that
loved Ham Belfort, and saw the solid sweetness of nature that made that
huge body a temple of good will, so to speak. He had the kind of
goodness that gives peace and rest to those who lean against it. His
mill was one of the places--but we shall come to that by and by!

Walking on as we talked, we soon came to the village, and I begged my
new friend to come in and see my father and my home. We entered. My
father was standing by the fire, facing the door, with one hand on the
tall mantel-shelf. He was in one of his waking dreams, and I was struck
deeply, Melody, by the beauty, and, if I may use the word about a plain
man, the majesty of his looks. My companion was struck, too, for he
stopped short, and murmured something under his breath; I heard the word
"Noblesse," and thought it not amiss. My father's eyes (they were
extraordinarily bright and blue) were wide open, and looked through us
and beyond us, yet saw nothing, or nothing that other eyes could see;
the tender look was in them that meant the thought of my mother. But
Abby came quietly round from the corner where she sat sewing, and laid
her hand on his arm, and spoke clearly, yet not sharply, telling him to
look and see, Jakey had brought a gentleman to see him. Then the vision
passed, and my father looked and saw us, and came forward with a
stately, beautiful way that he could use, and bade the stranger welcome.
Ste. Valerie bowed low, as he might to a prince. Hearing that he was a
Frenchman, my father seemed pleased. "My dear wife was a Frenchwoman!"
he said. "She was a musician, sir; I wish you could have heard her
play."

"He was himself also of French descent," Ste. Valerie reminded him, with
another bow; and told of the ruined tower, and the old friendship
between the two houses. But my father cared nothing for descent.

"Long ago, sir!" he said. "Long ago! I have nothing to do with the dead
of two hundred years back. I am a plain farmer; my son has learned the
trade of shoemaking, though