a log chute in the hills. When he died, Parpon was nearer to him
than the priest, and he loved to hear the dwarf chant his wild rhythms
of the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, more than to listen to
holy prayers. Elise, who had a warm, impulsive nature, in keeping with
her black eyes and tossing hair, who was all fire and sun and heart and
temper, ran over and caught the dwarf round the neck, and kissed him on
the cheek, dashing the tears out of her eyes, as she said:

"I'm a cat, I'm a bad-tempered thing, Parpon; I hate myself."

He laughed, shook his shaggy head, and pushed her away the length of
his long, strong arms. "Bosh!" said he; "you're a puss and no cat, and
I like you better for the claws. If you hate yourself, you'll get a big
penance. Hate the ugly like Parpon, not the pretty like you. The one's
no sin, the other is."

She was beside the open door of the oven; and it would be hard to tell
whether her face was suffering from heat or from blushes. However that
might chance, her mouth was soft and sweet, and her eyes were still wet.

"Who is he, Parpon?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Lajeunesse the blacksmith, or
Garotte the lime-burner-and the rest?"

"Of course not," she answered.

"Is he like the Cure, or Monsieur De la Riviere, or Monsieur Garon, or
Monsieur Medallion?"

"He's different," she said hesitatingly.

"Better or worse?"

"More--more"--she did not know what to say--"more interesting."

"Is he like the Judge Honourable that comes from Montreal, or the grand
Governor, or the General that travels with the Governor?"

"Yes, but different--more--more like us in some things, like them in
others, and more--splendid. He speaks such fine things! You mind the
other night at the Louis Quinze. He is like--"

She paused. "What is he like?" Parpon asked slyly, enjoying her
difficulty.

"Ah, I know," she answered; "he is a little like Madame the American who
came two years ago. There is something--something!"

Parpon laughed again. "Like Madame Chalice from New York--fudge!" Yet he
eyed her as if he admired her penetration. "How?" he urged.

"I don't know--quite," she answered, a little pettishly. "But I used
to see Madame go off in the woods, and she would sit hour by hour, and
listen to the waterfall, and talk to the birds, and at herself too; and
more than once I saw her shut her hands--like that! You remember what
tiny hands she had?" (She glan