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"Yes, among others M. de Lucenet, city-gate captain when the King was reigning."

"Yes," continued my brother, "but in '93, relatives were no use a man had to rely on his own arm. I had to work. Where you are going, M. Jean Valjean, there is one branch of manufactures -quite patriarchal and lovely, my sister dear! cheese-making of a kind called fruity."

While pressing the man to eat, my brother explained at length how Pontarlier cheese-making was managed. The factories are of two sorts: the big granges are run by the rich dairy farmers, who keep forty or fifty head of milchers and produce seven or eight thousands of cheese yearly; and the cooperative factories, societies formed by the petty farmers on the mid-upland, who mass their produce and share the proceeds. They hire a practical cheesemaker, who receives the society's milk thrice a day and keeps account of the quantity. Towards the end of April the cheese factories begin running, and about the middle of June the cattle men drive their herds upon the highlands.

The man became animated while eating. My brother made him drink the Mauves wine, which he says he cannot touch as it is too dear for him. My brother went into the particulars above with that easy gayety which you knew so well, glancing off with pleasant reflections for me. He dwelt upon the cheese-making to impress on the man that it would be a good business for him to be attached to, an asylum for him, wishing him to see it in that light, without rudely and directly advising him.

One matter struck me; throughout the repast and the whole of the evening,-though I have told you what kind of a man this was,-my brother did not say a word, with the exception of the remark about Jesus when he entered, to remind him what he was or to tell him his own position. Yet it seemed an

occasion to preach a little sermon and to let the bishop leave on the galley-slave an impression of the interview. Perhaps another would have grasped this chance to nourish the soul of this sinner, being under the hand, at the same time as the body, and deliver reproaches fraught with counsel and morality, or at least show commiseration with exhortation to behave better in the future.

My brother did not even ask him where he came from, or his story. There must have been a fault, but my brother deemed to avoid so much as reminding him of it. This was so, for, at one point, as my brother was expatiating on the Pontarlier mountaineers, who have "the sweeter toil as it is high up nearer the heavens, and are happy because guileless,” he stopped short, fearing that something in the remark might wound the man's feelings.

On thinking this over, I believe I can see what was passing in Charles' mind. Not but he thought that this Valjean man had his misery too plainly before him, and that the better way was to divert him, and make him believe even for a while that he was like other men-by treating him in the ordinary way. Is not this indeed genuine charity? something truly evangelic in the delicacy abstaining from all lecturing, moralizing, and allusions; the best pity being in not touching the raw spot in the soul? It seems to me that such was my brother's inward thought. In any case I must say that if this were so, he did not reveal the ideas even to me. From beginning to end, he was the same as ever all the evening and he supped with this vagabond with the same manners as if it were his curate or a neighbor.

Towards the close, as we were at the fruit, a knock came at the door. It was Mother Gerbaud, with her little boy in her arms. My brother kissed the little one and borrowed some silver that I had to give the woman. The man did not pay any great heed. He

did not speak any more, and appeared deeply tired. Poor old Gerbaud having gone, my brother said grace, and turning to the man, said:—

"You must want to go to bed."

Madam Magloire had cleared away very briskly and we went to our rooms. I sent her directly after to carry to the man's bed a Black Forest buckskin robe which I have, as the nights are icy, and it is a warm wrap. When Madam Magloire returned, we said our prayers and retired without speaking about the guest.

After saying good-night to his sister, Bishop Myriel took up one of the silver candlesticks from the table for himself, gave the other to his guest, and said:

'If you are ready, sir, I will show you your bedroom."

The man followed him. The rooms were so located that to pass in or out of the oratory where the guest was placed, one had to cross through the bishop's bedroom. As the two were doing so, Housekeeper Magloire was shutting up the silver plate in the cupboard at the head of the bed. It was her last care before going to rest.

The bishop installed his guest in the alcove, where a fresh, white bed was ready. The man stood the candle on the little table.

"I hope you will have a good night," said the host. "Before you start in the morning I shall have a bowl of new milk for you."

"Thank you, master priest," said the man.

Scarcely had he uttered these words, full of peace, than a sudden strange thrill shook him, and would have frozen the two women with horror had they seen it. It is hard to say at present what inspired him at that moment. Did he mean to give warning or throw out a threat? Or did he merely obey some instinctive impulse obscure to himself? He wheeled

round sharply on the old gentleman, folded his arms and cried in a hoarse voice as he fastened a wild look on him:—

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Come, come, is it a fact that you make me at home like this?" he added with a chuckle in which was a monster's tone. "Have you thought the thing over? how are you to know but that I have committed murder?"

"That is the concern of our good God," replied the prelate.

Gravely, moving his lips as though he were praying or speaking to himself, he raised two fingers of the right hand, and blessed the man, who did not bow to the benediction, and, without turning his head or looking behind him, he went into his own chamber.

When the recess was occupied, a wide serge screen was drawn from side to side to conceal the altar in the oratory. The bishop bent the knee in passing before the curtain and made a brief prayer.

In another moment he was in his garden, walking in reverie, contemplative, with his soul and brain given wholly to those grand, mysterious matters which heaven shows in the night to open eyes.

As for his guest, he was so tired that he did not even take advantage of the nice white sheets. He had blown out his candle by stopping up one nostril with his finger laid beside it and blowing through the other, after the manner of prisoners when candles were used, and dropped dressed on the couch, where he went off at once into deep slumber.

Midnight struck as the bishop returned from the garden into his room.

A few minutes subsequently all were asleep throughout the little house.

THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE

(Translated by Andrew Lang)

HE Grave said to the Rose

What of the dews of dawn,

Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
"And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares?
The Rose said to the Grave.

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The Rose said: "In the shade
From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet."
"And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,

More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,"

The Grave said to the Rose.

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