threshold. He was a man about sixty, thin and with a goatee and long,
white mustache.

My friend shook him by the hand and introduced me, and Matthew took us
into a clean kitchen, which served also as a dining-room. He said:

"I have no elegant apartment, monsieur. I do not like to get too far away
from the food. The saucepans, you see, keep me company." Then, turning to
my friend:

"Why did you come on Thursday? You know quite well that this is the day I
consult my Guardian Saint. I cannot go out this afternoon."

And running to the door, he uttered a terrific roar: "Melie!" which must
have startled the sailors in the ships along the stream in the valley
below.

Melie did not reply.

Then Matthew winked his eye knowingly.

"She is not pleased with me, you see, because yesterday I was in the
nineties."

My friend began to laugh. "In the nineties, Matthew! How did you manage
it?"

"I will tell you," said Matthew. "Last year I found only twenty rasieres
(an old dry measure) of apricots. There are no more, but those are the
only things to make cider of. So I made some, and yesterday I tapped the