the flaming fire of logs, and the great brass pan shining like fresh-
coined gold, on its iron tripod over the logs. Lassies in their short
woollen petticoats, and bedgones of blue and lilac, with boisterous lads,
were stirring the contents of the vast bashin--many cabots of apples,
together with sugar, lemon-peel, and cider; the old ladies in mob-caps
tied under the chin, measuring out the nutmeg and cinnamon to complete
the making of the black butter: a jocund recreation for all, and at all
times.

In one corner was a fiddler, and on the veille, flourished for the
occasion with satinettes and fern, sat two centeniers and the prevot,
singing an old song in the patois of three parishes.

Ranulph looked at the scene lingeringly. Here he was, with mystery and
peril to hasten his steps, loitering at the spot where the light of home
streamed out upon the roadway. But though he lingered, somehow he seemed
withdrawn from all these things; they were to him now as pictures of a
distant past.

Dormy plucked at his coat. "Come, come, lift your feet, lift your feet,"
said he; "it's no time to walk in slippers. The old man will be getting
scared, oui-gia!" Ranulph roused himself. Yes, yes, he must hurry on.
He had not forgotten his father, but something held him here; as though
Fate were whispering in his ear. What does it matter now? While yet you
may, feed on the sight of happiness. So the prisoner going to execution
seizes one of the few moments left to him for prayer, to look lingeringly
upon what he leaves, as though to carry into the dark a clear remembrance
of it all.

Moving on quietly in a kind of dream, Ranulph was roused again by Dormy's