ring."

The light died out; his eyes wandered for a moment, and then set, in a
way I knew; and I began to talk fast of the first thing that came into
my mind.

CHAPTER VI.

I COULD write a whole book about the summer that followed this spring
day, when I first met Yvon de Ste. Valerie. Yes, and the book would be
so long that no mortal man would have time to read it; but I must hurry
on with my story; for truth to tell, my eyes are beginning to be not
quite what they have been,--they'll serve my time, I hope, but my
writing was always small and crabbed,--and I must say what I have to
say, shorter than I have begun, I perceive. After the first week, then,
which he spent with Father L'Homme-Dieu, Yvon came over to our village
and boarded with Abby Rock. The Father was pleased to have him come; he
knew it would be a great thing for me, and he thought it would not hurt
the young gentleman to live for a time with plain folks. But if he
thought Yvon would look down on our village people, or hold himself
better than they, he was mistaken. In a week the young Frenchman was the
son and brother of the whole village. Our people were dear, good people,
Melody; but I sometimes thought them a little dull; that was after my
mother's death. I suppose I had enough of another nature in me to be
troubled by this, but not enough to know how to help it; later I
learned a little more; but indeed, I should justly say that my lessons
were begun by Yvon de Ste. Valerie. It was from him I learned, my dear,
that nothing in this world of God's is dull or common, unless we bring
dull hearts and dim eyes to look at it. It is the vision, the vision,
that makes the life; that vision which you, my child, with your
sightless eyes, have more clearly than almost any one I have known.

He was delighted with everything. He wanted to know about everything. He
declared that he should write a book, when he returned to France, all
about our village, which he called Paradise. It is a pretty place, or
was as I remember it. He must see how bread was made, how wool was spun,
how rugs were braided. Many's the time I have found him sitting in some
kitchen, winding the great balls of rags neatly cut and stitched
together, listening like a child while the woman told him of how many
rugs she had made, and how many quilts she had pieced; and she more
pleased than he, and thinking him one wonder and herself another.

He was in love with all the girls; so he sa