“You mean,” said Mr. Mush, who had joined the circle

The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dim distance.

At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life--is own life, maybe--or it was dreadfully spare and thin.

To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door.

`It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.'

With an exclamation of impatience, but with his Un+changeable face, Monseigneur looked out.

`How, then! What is it? Always petitions!'

`Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.'

`What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?'

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