, as he meets him hurrying through the Rue
de la Boucherie.

"She is better, the poor child! but she must be careful this winter."
Then, seeing Houlard look anxious, the good doctor says, "But she is so
far better that I have discontinued my visits: I have given Marie leave
to come to Aubette."

"That is good news," says Houlard as the doctor shoots past him, and the
tailor tells the next person he meets that Marie Famette is as well as
ever, and is coming to market as usual.

It is Leon Roussel to whom he tells this, and Monsieur Houlard is pained
at the young man's want of interest.

"One would have thought," he says to his wife when he reaches his shop,
"that Roussel was displeased with Marie for recovering her health."

"Perhaps he thinks she will make a fool of herself, now she is well
again, by marrying Nicolas Marais: I hear they are lovers."

"It is a pity," says the dutiful husband. "Girls should not choose for
themselves. You did not, my dear, and that is why our life has gone so
easily."

But Marie is not really as strong as the doctor pronounces her to be:
her cheeks are hollow, and the color on them is feverish and uncertain.
If she could get away from home she would have more chance of mending.
Madame Famette's sorrow at her daughter's changed looks expands itself
in querulous remonstrance on the folly of flirting and on the
good-for-nothing qualities of Nicolas Marais. Nicolas has come to
inquire for Marie, but Madame Famette has received him so uncourteously
that the poor fellow contents himself with hovering about on the chance
of meeting Marie alone. But he never sees her, although the rumor grows
strong in St. Gertrude, and is wafted on to Aubette, that Nicolas and
Marie will be married as soon as she gets well enough to see about
wedding-clothes.

It is the beginning of October, a bright clear morning. The red and
yellow leaves come swiftly to the ground with a sudden snap from the
twigs that held them: the rabbits move about briskly, and a couple of
field-mice in search of winter stores run across the road nearly under
Marie's feet. Marie's cheeks are rosy with the fresh, crisp air, but she
does not look gay or happy. Life seems to have got into a hard knot
which the poor little girl finds no power to untie. Market-day used to
be a fete to Marie, but to-day she considers it a penance to be sent in
to Aubette. She is not going to hold her stall--ah no, she is not nearly
strong enough for su