before the wood fire roasting chestnuts and spinning flax on the wheel,
and ever and again watching the flame reflected on the fair head of
Bernadou or in the dark, smiling eyes of Margot.

Another spring passed and another year went by, and the little home
under the sycamores was still no less honest in its labours or bright
in its rest. It was one among a million of such homes in France, where a
sunny temper made mirth with a meal of herbs, and filial love touched to
poetry the prose of daily household tasks.

A child was born to Margot in the springtime with the violets and
daisies, and Reine Allix was proud of the fourth generation, and, as she
caressed the boy's healthy, fair limbs, thought that God was indeed good
to her, and that her race would live long in the place of her birth.
The child resembled Bernadou, and had his clear, candid eyes. It soon
learned to know the voice of "_gran'mere_," and would turn from its
young mother's bosom to stretch its arms to Reine Allix. It grew fair
and strong, and all the ensuing winter passed its hours curled like
a dormouse or playing like a puppy at her feet in the chimney-corner.
Another spring and summer came, and the boy was more than a year old,
with curls of gold, and cheeks like apples, and a mouth that always
smiled. He could talk a little, and tumbled like a young rabbit among
the flowering grasses. Reine Allix watched him, and her eyes filled.
"God is too good," she thought. She feared that she should scarce be so
willing to go to her last sleep under the trees on the hillside as she
used to be. She could not help a desire to see this child, this second
Bernadou, grow up to youth and manhood; and of this she knew it was wild
to dream.

It was ripe midsummer. The fields were all russet and amber with an