felt so differently by different natures. The thought of death is
called up by a churchyard, but a deserted village puts us in mind of
the sorrows of life; death is but one misfortune always foreseen, but
the sorrows of life are infinite. Does not the thought of the infinite
underlie all great melancholy?

The officer reached the stony path by the mill-pond before he could
hit upon an explanation of this deserted village. The miller's lad was
sitting on some sacks of corn near the door of the house. Genestas
asked for M. Benassis.

"M. Benassis went over there," said the miller, pointing out one of
the ruined cottages.

"Has the village been burned down?" asked the commandant.

"No, sir."

"Then how did it come to be in this state?" inquired Genestas.

"Ah! how?" the miller answered, as he shrugged his shoulders and went
indoors; "M. Benassis will tell you that."

The officer went over a rough sort of bridge built up of boulders
taken from the torrent bed, and soon reached the house that had been
pointed out to him. The thatched roof of the dwelling was still
entire; it was covered with moss indeed, but there were no holes in
it, and the door and its fastenings seemed to be in good repair.
Genestas saw a fire on the hearth as he entered, an old woman kneeling
in the chimney-corner before a sick man seated in a chair, and another