id, and they had nothing to
say against it. But yet there was no girl could carry a sore heart, for
he treated them all alike. In this I have thought that he showed a sense
and kindness beyond his years or his seeming giddiness; for some of them
might well enough have had their heads turned by a gentleman, and one so
handsome, and with a tongue that liked better to say "Angel!" to a
woman than anything more suited to the average of the sex. But no girl
in the village could think herself for a moment the favoured maiden; for
if one had the loveliest eyes in the world, the next had a cheek of
roses and velvet, and the third walked like a goddess, and the fourth
charmed his soul out of his body every time she opened her lips. And so
it went on, till all understood it for play, and the pleasantest play
they ever saw. But he vowed from the first that he would marry Abby
Rock, and no other living woman. Abby always said yes, she would marry
him the first Sunday that came in the middle of the week; and then she
would try to make him eat more, though he took quite as much as was good
for him, not being used to our hearty ways, especially in the mornings.
Abby was as pleased with him as a child with a kitten, and it was pretty
to see them together.

"Light of my life!" Yvon would cry. "You are exquisite this morning!
Your eyes are like stars on the sea. Come, then, angelic Rock, _Rocher
des Anges_, and waltz with your Ste. Valerie!" And he would take Abby by
the waist, and try to waltz with her, till she reached for the
broomstick. I have told you, Melody, that Abby was the homeliest woman
the Lord ever made. Not that I ever noticed it, for the kindness in her
face was so bright I never saw anything but that; but strangers would
speak of it, and Yvon himself, before he heard her speak, made a little
face, I remember, that only I could see, and whispered, had I brought
him to lodge with Medusa? Medusa, indeed! I think Abby's smile would
soften any stone that had ever had a human heart beating in it, instead
of the other way.

But the place in the village that Yvon loved best was Ham Belfort's
grist-mill; and when he comes to my mind, in these days, when sadder
visions are softened and partly dim to me, it is mostly there that I
seem to see my friend.

It was, as I have said, one of the pleasantest places in the world. To
begin with, the colour and softness of it all! The window-glass was
powdered white, and the light came thro