'By-the-bye, I forgot! that gadabout Vincent hasn't come. Do you wish me
to serve your mass, your reverence?'

The young priest eyed her sternly.

'Well, it isn't a sin,' she continued, with her genial smile. 'I did
serve a mass once, in Monsieur Caffin's time. I serve it better, too,
than ragamuffins who laugh like heathens at seeing a fly buzzing about
the church. True I may wear a cap, I may be sixty years old, and as
round as a tub, but I have more respect for our Lord than those imps of
boys whom I caught only the other day playing at leap-frog behind the
altar.'

The priest was still looking at her and shaking his head.

'What a hole this village is!' she grumbled. 'Not a hundred and fifty
people in it! There are days, like to-day, when you wouldn't find a
living soul in Les Artaud. Even the babies in swaddling clothes are gone
to the vineyards! And goodness knows what they do among such vines
--vines that grow under the pebbles and look as dry as thistles! A
perfect wilderness, three miles from any highway! Unless an angel comes
down to serve your mass, your reverence, you've only got me to help you,
on my honour! or one of Mademoiselle Desiree's rabbits, no offence to
your reverence!'

Just at that moment, however, Vincent, the Brichets' younger son, gently
opened the door of the sacristy. His shock of red hair and his little,
glistening, grey eyes exasperated La Teuse.

'Oh! the wretch!' she cried. 'I'll bet he's just been up to some