The buyer who came to Bellerivre from the Gaspard silk mills was a lively little Frenchman whom Pierre had often seen before.

"So it is you, my young friend, who this year raises the cocoons!" cried the merchant cordially. "Who would have thought it possible? But yesterday you were a baby in your father's arms. And now——" the little man shrugged his shoulders. "Eh bien, le bon chien chasse de race! N'est pas, Madame?"

Madame Bretton smiled.

"The lad is but doing his best to fill his father's place," she answered quietly.

"That is as it should be with all good French boys, too," the merchant assented. "And have you ever visited our silk mills at Pont-de-Saint-Michel? No? Ah, but you should do so. It is only an hour's journey, and if you are to raise silk you must learn all you can about it. If I should give you a letter to our foreman would not Madame, your mother, be willing you should go?"

Pierre glanced up eagerly.

His eyes sparkled.

"Would you, Mother? It would not cost very much, would it?" He turned apologetically to the silk buyer. "You see," he explained, "in these war days we must be very saving, for every franc that we can spare goes to my father and my uncle, who are in the army."

"I know," sighed the agent. "Wherever I go it is the same. All the men are at the front. But the cost of the trip I suggested is very little, and I myself should be glad to——"

"No, Monsieur Leclerq," interrupted Madame Bretton. "I know what you would say, and I thank you; but we are well able to pay Pierre's expenses to Saint Michel, since you are so kind as to invite him. I am sure the excursion would more than repay us. It would not be like taking the money for a mere pleasure tour. Pierre shall go. It will be another step toward making a silk merchant of him."

"I wish I could go, too," whispered Marie.

"You are not to be a silk merchant, chÉrie," answered her mother gently. "We women are the stay-at-homes, who do all we can to help our men forward in their careers; that is our work."

And so the next day Pierre, very happy and important, and with a large box of luncheon under his arm, set out upon the train for the Pont-de-Saint-Michel silk mills. To be going on such a long journey all alone was a novel undertaking for the lad, who seldom left his own green valley. It was almost as wonderful as if he were starting for Marseilles, or indeed Paris itself. The place where he was going did not, however, possess the glamour of either of these great cities. On the contrary it was merely a sort of depot or centre to which all the cocoons bought up in the vicinity were sent to have the silk reeled from them; there were also at this plant some extensive throwing mills, but no weaving was done there. Instead the thrown silk was sold to the great weaving factories at Lyons, Tours, or other silk-making cities of France; and the raw product was sent to Marseilles, from which market it was either distributed to French mills or shipped to England or the United States for manufacture.

The day was a beautiful one. Massive white clouds hung low over the distant mountains; but the valley was flooded with golden sunshine that illumined it like some vast search-light. The vineyards never looked greener, the hillsides more velvety and cool, or the river more sparkling. Now the train skirted the banks of the stream, now shot past meadows of fertile farming land; or of a sudden it crossed a noisy mountain torrent and crept up the hillside until the vegetation became low and stunted, and the rocky peaks of the Pyrenees seemed but an arm's length away. Then slowly down over a trestle of airily poised bridge-work it descended to the valley again. Was ever a journey such a marvel? To the French boy who had seen little of the outside world it was an Arabian Night's dream.

All too soon Saint Michel was reached, and Pierre set out for the silk mills, where he presented the card that Monsieur Leclerq had given him. Then for a few minutes he waited in a small office where the jar of machinery and the whirr of wheels caused a monotonous and unceasing vibration.

Presently a giant foreman with sleeves rolled to the elbow came hurrying out.

He regarded Pierre with surprise.

"They told me that one of our silk-growers wanted to see me," faltered he uncertainly. "There has doubtless been some mistake. You are but a boy."

"I am nevertheless a silk-grower," smiled Pierre modestly. "It is because the men of our household are in the trenches that I——"

Impulsively the foreman thrust out his hand.

"I too have relatives in the battle line," he said. "My brother and cousins are there, and I should be with them now were it not for an ugly wound I got at the Marne. They will not take me back to fight, even though I have begged to go. And so here I am—restless and half angry that I must remain boxed up at Saint Michel and make silk instead of being where the firing is going on. Yet some must stay behind and carry on the country's industries. Perhaps I can still do my bit here. I have tried to be philosophical about it and work as hard as I can, for I feel that those who cannot help in one way can, maybe, help in another."

He glanced at the card Pierre had brought.

"Bretton is your name?"

"Pierre Bretton."

"Monsieur Leclerq says your shipment of cocoons was a good contribution to the prosperity of France."

Pierre flushed.

"I am glad if it seemed so. We must support ourselves—my mother, sister, and I—and not be a burden to the country while my father is away."

"That's the right spirit," answered the foreman heartily. "And so you want to see your silk reeled off—yours, or somebody's else? Well, you shall. I am busy myself and so cannot go with you; but Henri, one of our boys, shall take you with him and tell you all you wish to know. Do not fear to ask questions if you do not understand, for Henri is well able to answer them. He knows everything that anybody can about silk reeling."

As he beckoned to a tall, slender boy who sat at a desk opposite the foreman smiled kindly down at Pierre.

"Henri," he continued when the employee approached, "I want you to show this young silk-raising friend of ours, Monsieur Bretton, how we sort cocoons and reel them off. Tell him everything you can, for he is a grower and has the right to know."

"Mais, oui, avec beaucoup de plaisir," answered the boy. "I will do my best." He bowed to the foreman, who, after shaking Pierre by the hand, turned away. "Now Monsieur Bretton——"

"My name is Pierre. No one ever called me Monsieur Bretton before, and I do not like it," protested Pierre smiling. "I am but a boy like yourself. Please call me by my first name—if you do not mind."

Henri beamed on him.

"I should like it much better," he replied cordially. "And I am Henri St. Amant. Now it is all understood, is it not? Shall we begin then our journey through the filature? We will go into the sorting rooms first, where the cocoons that are sent to us are classified. Most of them have already been cured, or baked, for the majority of our customers do that for us. When they do not we have to expose the cocoons in our own ovens."

"Don't most of your cocoons come to you sorted?" questioned Pierre.

"Most of them are roughly classified," nodded Henri. "But the grading must be much more finely done. Only experts can sort cocoons thoroughly."

As he spoke he led the way into a long room, where on every hand girls were moving in and out among heaps of cocoons that were either piled high on tables or massed upon squares of canvas on the floor. The room and everything in it was spotless.

"We try to keep the cocoons from getting soiled, you see," explained Henri.

"Is the sorting done by girls?" questioned Pierre, astonished.

"Since the war, yes. We have had to train them to take the places of those who have gone to be soldiers. It is not, of course, heavy work, but it requires skill and judgment since the many varieties of cocoons need different treatment. Here, for example, are dupions, or double cocoons, which as you doubtless already know have more floss on the outside than do others, and must be well cleaned before any attempt at reeling can be made. Often they cannot be run off at all because the two caterpillars that worked together to make the single cocoon have intertwined the threads until they break all to bits when we try to separate them. Here is another species of cocoon." Henri pointed to a pile on the next table. "These are of beautiful texture, smooth and satiny. But they must be treated with tepid, not hot, water, as are a good proportion of the others, and the accumulation of gum mixed with the filament must be soaked out with soap-suds. This will give you an idea how many things there are to think of in reeling. Some cocoons give off their silk too easily, and unless put into cool water will snarl; others fail to give off the thread at all and instead must be treated with hot water, which aids in loosening it. Another difficulty we sometimes encounter is that the reelers cannot catch the end of the thread to begin their work; this usually indicates that the water into which the cocoons have been put is too cool. On the other hand if the silk ruffs up and comes off in snarls upon the brush, the matted masses indicate that the water is too hot. All this the reelers must learn by experience, and they must learn it, too, without wasting our silk. Two general laws underlie this feature of silk-reeling: hot water makes the silk run faster, and cold water retards its progress. Your problem is to see which treatment your cocoons require."

"Of course those who sort the cocoons can tell nothing of that," ventured Pierre.

"Oh, no. The sorters simply put into one place those cocoons that are of the same kind. The way the cocoons behave in the water is the business of the reeler. We have tanks or basins of a graduated temperature, and the operators soon learn into which one to put a cocoon of a certain type."

"I did not dream one had to know so much just to reel off the silk," murmured Pierre. "I had always supposed it would be an easy matter; but now I see it isn't."

Henri laughed.

"But I have not told you half our troubles yet," he answered mischievously. "Thus far I have spoken only of the cocoons. In addition there is the water to consider. That must be the right sort, too. It must be as pure as we can get it, both chemically and in color. And even then the high temperature necessary to bring the silk off the cocoons will cause any sandy sediment there may be in it to rise to the surface and cut the filament as we reel it off. We have to be prepared for that emergency as well as the others. And now to return to the sorting of the cocoons. Do you see that pile over there? Those are what we call perfect ones. The thread from them will go into the finest quality silks and satins, as the filament has neither spots nor flaws."

"But those cocoons are very small," objected Pierre.

"Yes. The best cocoons are not always the largest, by any means. It is quality, not size, that counts." Henri passed on. "Here now," he continued as he paused before another lot, "are some more pointed at one end than at the other. We know from bitter experience that they will reel badly, because the silk which runs smoothly at the beginning will prove to be weak in some places and break. We toss them aside and reel them separately. These cocalons, as we call this other kind, are also thrown out because they are hard to wind."

"They are much larger," observed Pierre.

"You are right. Nevertheless they have no more silk on them. The reason they look bigger is because the worm spun them less compactly; unless they are put into cold water they will tangle and mat when reeled."

"And that next lot?"

"Soufflons? They are the most imperfect cocoon made. The silk is so loosely spun that it cannot be wound at all, and is good only for floss."

Pierre shook his head despairingly.

"I thought I knew quite a lot about cocoons," he said. "But by the time I go home I shall feel I don't know anything. Why, I never could learn to sort all those kinds if I kept trying for years."

"Only those who have handled thousands of cocoons can," returned his guide consolingly. "I couldn't begin to do it. Here is a pile now! They have a hole in the end and cannot be reeled because every time the thread comes to the perforation it is broken. Probably the moth was allowed to escape and injured the filament. They must be used for floss, too, for they are good for nothing else."

The boys wandered on down the room.

"In this pile you will see what we call good choquettes," resumed Henri. "I must tell you about them, for the species is peculiar. The worm inside them died before finishing its work and stuck onto the inside of the cocoon." He took one from the heap and shook it. "It does not rattle, you see. Nevertheless the filament on it is of excellent quality—not very strong, perhaps, but of fine texture. In contrast to these good choquettes is this tableful of bad choquettes. Like the others the silkworm died during his spinning, but this time he rotted away inside, leaving the cocoon black and mottled."

"Healthy worms make the best cocoons, of course," Pierre rejoined.

"Not at all," contradicted Henri. "Here is what is known as a calcined cocoon made by a worm which had a peculiar disease that turned it to powder. You would not think that such a creature could spin the best quality of silk there is, would you? Yet it is so. Listen to the queer rattle the cocoon has."

Holding it to Pierre's ear he shook it gently.

"These cocoons not only have excellent silk on them, but they have more of it than if they had been spun by a healthy worm. As a result they command the highest price and buyers are eager to find them."

"I guess I don't know anything about silkworms or cocoons either," announced Pierre in dismay.

Both boys laughed.

"It is amazing how much there is to know about almost anything when you once start to learn about it from top to bottom," declared Henri. "I came into this filature when quite young, and it has taken me years to find out even the little I know now."

"I think you know a lot," Pierre returned admiringly. "I'd be happy if I knew even half as much."

"Oh, no you wouldn't," was the prompt retort. "You'd want to know a great deal more, just as I do—that is, if you were any good. There are a thousand things I want to find out. The silk business, you see, is to be my trade. I have an uncle in the weaving mills at Lyons, and some day when I know more he is to find a place for me there. So I am learning all I can about the classifying and reeling of cocoons; and I have also raised a few silkworms so as to be familiar with the very beginnings of the industry. Soon I am to go into the filature to help with the reeling; and after that they have promised to send me on into the throwing mills, where the filament is twisted into thread preparatory to weaving. Then I shall be ready to go to Lyons and see how silks, satins, and velvets are made. Lyons, you know, is a famous silk-making city. It was there that Philippe de la Salle, the great silk designer, lived. Because he did such beautiful work he was decorated by Louis XVI with the Order of Saint Michel and was given a pension of six mille livres. Think of that! Alas, such things do not happen now. That was long ago—between 1723 and 1803. His good fortune did not, however, last long, for the Revolution came, and the court which gave him his money went out of power. Still the people of Lyons were proud of him and despite the fact that he had been a court favorite they provided for him lodgings in the Palais Saint Pierre, where he lived for the rest of his life."

"I am afraid I do not know much about what he did," said Pierre with engaging frankness.

"Why, it was Philippe de la Salle who designed the silk hangings for the chamber of Marie Antoinette, and who originated the Empire motif of the wreath of laurel; he also designed silks gorgeous with garlands intertwined with ribbon; or decorated with baskets of fruit and flowers; and sometimes he made use of great birds. He has done some of the finest silk designs ever woven. My uncle told me, however, that years and years before that wonderful silks were made; and that fragments showing beautiful designs are in the museums of Berlin and Nuremberg, as well as in our own Cluny Museum, and the great museums of London. He said there were also marvelous church vestments of even earlier date and also some very ancient Byzantine silks splendid with griffins, eagles, and lions. Some day, perhaps, I shall go to see them, and maybe I myself may learn to weave such fabrics. Who knows? And what are you going to do, Pierre?"

"I suppose I shall just go on raising silkworms," was the quiet reply. "It is hard work, but I see nothing else ahead for me. However, when my father and uncle return from the war there will be time enough for me to think what I will do."

"Ah, but you have a plan already; I can see that!" Henri cried.

Pierre nodded gravely.

"Yes, I have a plan—or perhaps I better call it a dream. I should like to go to America. One can earn more money there. My mother's brother is at Paterson, New Jersey, which is in America, and I have some young cousins there also."

"Yes, yes, I know," exclaimed Henri eagerly. "There are great silk mills at Paterson where they make fine silks and ribbons—some of them as beautiful as any we make in France. Maybe some day you will go there."

"I'm afraid not," returned Pierre. "Even should the war end and my father and uncle come home again I have no money to go to America."

"Don't give up so easily," Henri said, placing a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "We never can tell what will happen. My mother says that if we do the best we can every day sometimes the thing we wish most will come to us; if not, Le Bon Dieu will send something else which may be even better."

"I am trying to do my best," Pierre answered bravely. "And anyway so long as my father and uncle are safe nothing else really matters."

The boys exchanged a smile and passed on into the filature, as the factory where the reeling was done was called.