announced that he would take the honeymoon himself, and leave his wife to
learn cooking from old Babette.

So he went away alone cheerfully, with hymeneal rice falling in showers
on his mourning garments; and his new wife was as cheerful as he, and
threw rice also.

She learned how to cook, and in time Farette learned that he had his one
true inspiration when he wore mourning at his second marriage.






MATHURIN

The tale was told to me in the little valley beneath Dalgrothe Mountain
one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the
flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a
little Calvary down by the riverside, where the flax-beaters used to say
their prayers in the intervals of their work; and it was just at the foot
of this that Angele Rouvier, having finished her prayer, put her rosary
in her pocket, wiped her eyes with the hem of her petticoat, and said to
me:

"Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!"

"Tell me all about him, won't you, Madame Angele? I want to hear you
tell it," I added hastily, for I saw that she would despise me if I