his; and
I could see when I got to know her that she thought it quite right and
fitting, considering herself the lowest and meanest of creatures.

"When the old woman took to her bed finally, the other old women in the
village sat with her by turns, as the custom is there; and then Marie
was quite driven out of the house. They gave her no food at all, and she
could not get any work in the village; none would employ her. The men
seemed to consider her no longer a woman, they said such dreadful things
to her. Sometimes on Sundays, if they were drunk enough, they used to
throw her a penny or two, into the mud, and Marie would silently pick up
the money. She had began to spit blood at that time.

"At last her rags became so tattered and torn that she was ashamed of
appearing in the village any longer. The children used to pelt her with
mud; so she begged to be taken on as assistant cowherd, but the cowherd
would not have her. Then she took to helping him without leave; and he
saw how valuable her assistance was to him, and did not drive her away
again; on the contrary, he occasionally gave her the remnants of his
dinner, bread and cheese. He considered that he was being very kind.
When the mother died, the village parson was not ashamed to hold Marie
up to public derision and shame. Marie was standing at the coffin's
head, in all her rags, crying.

"A crowd of people had collected to see how she would cry. The parson,
a young fellow ambitious of becoming a great preacher, began his sermon
and pointed to Marie. 'There,' he said, 'there is the cause of the death
of this venerable woman'--(which was a lie, because she had been ill for
at least two years)--'there she stands before you, and dares not lift
her eyes from the ground, because she knows that the finger of God is
upon her. Look at her tatters and rags--the badge of those who lose
their virtue. Who is she? her daughter!' and so on to the end.

"And just fancy, this infamy pleased them, all of them, nearly. Only the
children had altered--for then they were all on my side and had learned
to love Marie.

"This is how it was: I had wished to do something for Marie; I longed to
give her some money, but I never had a farthing while I was there. But
I had a little diamond pin, and this I sold to a travelling pedlar; he
gave me eight francs for it--it was worth at least forty.

"I long sought to meet Marie alone; and at last I did meet her, on the
hillside beyond the vil