"Dard is a fool," suggested Riviere, by way of general solution. He
added, "And yet, do you know I wish every word he said had been true."
(Jacintha's eyes expressed some astonishment.) "Because then you and I
would have concerted means to do them kindnesses, secretly; for I see
you are no ordinary servant; you love your young mistresses. Do you
not?"

These simple words seemed to touch a grander chord in Jacintha's nature.

"Love them?" said she, clasping her hands; "ah, sir, do not be offended;
but, believe me, it is no small thing to serve an old, old family. My
grandfather lived and died with them; my father was their gamekeeper,
and fed to his last from off the poor baron's plate (and now they have
killed him, poor man); my mother died in the house and was buried in
the sacred ground near the family chapel. They put an inscription on her
tomb praising her fidelity and probity. Do you think these things do not
sink into the heart of the poor?--praise on her tomb, and not a word on
their own, but just the name, and when each was born and died, you know.
Ah! the pride of the mean is dirt; but the pride of the noble is gold."

"For, look you, among parvenues I should be a servant, and nothing more;
in this proud family I am a humble friend; of course they are not always
gossiping with me like vulgar masters and mistresses; if they did, I
should neither respect nor love them; but they all smile on me whenever
I come into the room, even the baroness herself. I belong to them, and
they belong to me, by ties without number, by the many kind words in
many troubles, by the one roof that sheltered us a hundred years, and
the grave where our bones lie together till the day of judgment."*

* The French peasant often thinks half a sentence, and